


Epic Saga

by bushidobunny, Winnychan



Series: Epic Saga [2]
Category: TMNT (2007)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Feels, Blow Jobs, Consensual Underage Sex, Conspiracy, Dead Father - Freeform, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Eating Disorders, F/M, Gay, Gay Sex, Gen, Hand Jobs, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Other, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, SAINW, SAINW Omens, SAINW references, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Smoking, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Wakashūdo, eventual tcest, magic as a form of self medication, ninja intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 196,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7445326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bushidobunny/pseuds/bushidobunny, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnychan/pseuds/Winnychan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written by bushidobunny and Winnychan.</p><p>In the 2007 movie prequel comic for Leonardo, Splinter referred to the training period which Leonardo embarked on as the “Five Fold Path”. Upon his return, he was expected to demonstrate that he had passed the test for each of these virtues: Courage, Compassion, Selflessness, Humility, and Community.</p><p>The Hamato turtles, now in their mid twenties, were all expected to perform the same training period in order to secure the family’s place within the eyes of the Tribunal Council.  Leo and Raph completed their trials successfully. Don refused to take part, forsaking tradition and causing contention with Leonardo. Mikey, however, agreed to participate... and now it's his turn.</p><p>Michelangelo finds himself thrust into a new world, away from everything that he has known and with no way to return home until he has succeeded in passing the remaining tests in his Five Fold Path. Luckily, a familiar rabbit samurai is there to greet him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Fold Drop Out

**Author's Note:**

> It is helpful to have watched the 2007 movie and the 2003 series prior to reading this story, but it is certainly not required.

The birds have tucked in for the night. Crickets have begun to sing, but otherwise the rolling countryside is peaceful and still.

At least it _was_ , until a doorway opens in the sky.

It’s not a wholly unfamiliar sound, this tearing of the fabric between dimensions. Blue and white light spills from the edges of the portal. It’s not positioned so high as to draw notice for miles around – only about fifteen feet off the ground. And that’s a good thing for the youngest of the turtle brothers who comes flying out, arms pin wheeling in the air. A startled cry is cut short with a whuff as he lands hard on his plastron. His chin scrapes the rocky ground pretty hard and the collision punches the wind right out of him – but Mike’s used to being knocked around and makes a fairly quick recovery. Only seconds after landing, he is pushing himself up with a groan and fighting air back into his lungs. “Leo!” he wheezes, but can’t manage a decent volume yet.

Maybe he doesn’t need volume. His other two brothers have got that covered.

“Did you – have you lost your _mind_?”

“What the HELL, Leo!”

Suddenly Michelangelo is scared to look up. He knew even before coming home that Leo would be pissed off – but this is more anger than he had been prepared to face. Leo has been pushed past the point of shouting or lectures. The turtle on his knees peeks up very hesitantly and can’t help cringing under the ice-cold intensity of his brother’s milky, sightless eyes. The glasses had come off in the struggle that preceded his forceful ejection from Third Earth.

 _Oh, man_ … Mike is still not used to seeing that.

Leonardo’s eyes might not function anymore, but that doesn’t make him blind. He has a bunch of ninja mystic chi tricks he uses to compensate, and right now his face is focused unerringly on Mike.  
  
“Leo, this is madness!” Donatello isn’t visible from here, but even just hearing him arguing on Mike’s behalf helps to ease the painful constriction wrapped around his heart. “He – he only just got home! Bring him back, and let’s talk about this! You can’t just…”

“ _No_ ,” Leonardo intones in a chilling voice, not looking at Don. “He should not have returned yet. You know that, and he damn well knows it.”

“Leo! Brother!” Mike looks back up to plead, his voice raw with emotion. “ _Sensei, please_!”

“Mike. If you have been _disgraced_ by the Tribunal – if you are content with having _failed_ three of your five tests – if you are ready to give up less than six months into your training period, then y _ou do not deserve to call me that_!” Leo’s face contorts with fresh rage and he stalks out of sight.

Raph appears soon after Leo departs and gazes down at Mike helplessly. “I was _glad_ you came back. This is all so fucked up,” he mutters. He glares over his shoulder and yells, “Where the hell are you sending him, anyway?”

That’s a good point. A quick glance around confirms that Mike has NO idea where he is. A rocky grassland at the edge of a tall stand of trees. Sloping hills in one direction, trees in the other. It’s not New York City, that’s for sure.

“Somewhere he won’t be able to run away from so easily!” Leo growls evasively, from some distance away.

“Where is he going?” Mike demands fearfully.

Don comes into view, nudging Raph aside gently and looking worried. “He’s getting your traveling bag ready, I think? Restocking it with food. You’re going to have to do a better job this time with rationing…”

“Like hell he is! Mikey ain’t going nowhere. That Tribunal can eat my ass!”

“I don’t think Leo is going to…”

“Leo can eat my ass too!” Raph explodes. “Now get in there, and use your fancy logic to talk him OUT of this crazy scheme – or I’m going in there with my style of persuasion!”

Donatello’s mouth sets in a grim line. “I’ll try,” he agrees before disappearing from sight.

“Aw, shit…” Raph’s eyes widen with sudden alarm. “Do it fast, Don! This portal is shrinking!” Impulsively, the red-banded turtle drops to his knees and stretches one arm through the glowing doorway – though being so near all this buzzing blue-white energy makes him grimace with discomfort. “Can you grab my hand?”

Mike eyes the distance uncertainly. He scrambles to his feet and tries leaping from a standstill. Their fingertips brush but he falls back to the floor.

“Almost,” Raphael encourages. His tongue darts out to wet his mouth, looking really nervous now. “Give it a running start! You got this!”

Michelangelo nods and jogs back far enough to launch himself at the portal with more momentum. This time his brother’s rough hand seizes his own.

“Hnnf!” Raph grunts, trying to pull his brother up one-handed, then shifting his position in order to use both.

Mike manages to hook the fingers of his other hand on the concrete floor of the lair. Raph drags him in enough that he can get his elbow propped beneath him, though his legs are still kicking in the wind. But the portal has been getting smaller by the moment. The youngest turtle is no skinny kid anymore, and realizes with a stab of despair, “Raph! I – I don’t think my shell and shoulders will fit!”  
“Just hang tight, buddy,” Raph pleads, both hands gripping Mike’s arm fiercely.

“There isn’t time!” Mike insists. “Raph, listen to me! You gotta… you gotta look out for Donnie for me, okay? Ever since – what happened to Leo – he, he’s not handling it so good, I can tell! You gotta promise me!”

“You – okay! Yeah, fine! But you’re the one being banished to God knows where! Listen… we’re gonna work this out with Leo! You don’t gotta worry. We’re gonna…”

“What are you idiots _**doing**_?”

This question is voiced in such a strange, fierce tone that, for a moment, Mike thinks that Leo must have returned.

But he’s wrong. That isn’t Leo.

The bo staff descends on Raph’s hands with a sickening crack. Mike can feel the secondary impact jar through his arm up to the shoulder. It’s startling enough that he loses his grip and falls back to the ground.

Raphael hisses in pain and twists towards their brother with a snarl. “Mother fucker! Your broke my fucking wrist!”

“Not that arm!” Donatello snarls back at him, still brandishing his weapon. “ _What_ have I told you? We do not dangle him through a _shrinking_ magical portal by _that arm_ , you fucking Neanderthal!”

“He’s fine, Donnie.” This voice does belong to Leonardo. He sounds much calmer now as he commands them, “Get out of my way, both of you.”

“You guys are going to kill each other without me around to lighten the mood,” Mike points out softly. He gives Leo a look of appeal, but his brother’s visage is impenetrable.

Leonardo crouches down so that he can still be seen through the considerably smaller portal. “They’ll be fine,” he intones gravely. “And so will you. Here.”

There is barely room to stuff the familiar traveling pack through the hole that remains. It lands at Mike’s feet with a thump.

Right before the portal closes, he hears Leonardo murmur gently, “Good luck, _otouto_. You can do this.”

Michelangelo stares at the small square of blue and white fire until it blinks out of existence. It’s so bright right before it goes out that it leaves spots of color dancing in his vision. He blinks at the dark, unfamiliar landscape that surrounds him. He looks up to see a blanket of unfamiliar stars.

But the traveling pack is all too familiar. Mikey drops back onto his knees, gathers the leather bag up in both arms, and starts to cry.

Usagi had watched the incorporeal and specter-like visage of his dear friend fuming before him. It was odd, so much had changed about the shinobi leader in the years since the ronin had last seen him, yet in this moment he was just like the turtle that he befriended, young and lost. His demeanor was more restless, his words more bitter, then certainly the largest change were the eyes.

Eyes which had once been brilliant crystal blue orbs that shown with intelligence, determination and on more than one occasion, mischief, now were replaced by unseeing glossy white orbs that chilled the samurai to the core, even in this echoed illusion of the shinobi But Leonardo was one of his dearest friends and the loss of the warrior’s sight would do nothing to deter his dedication to the youth which he considered his brother.

“Three out of five, Usagi-san! It is a disgrace to my clan, to my sensei!”

The ronin nodded, knowing very well that Leo could not see the motion, but the shinobi could certainly sense it. “I understand, my friend. I am sure that your young brother did not intend to bring dishonor upon you-”

“Intention means nothing in this case, Usagi. The fact remains that he abandoned his training. Shell, even Raph stuck it out, Raph passed with flying colors.”

“Michelangelo is not Raphael. It is unfair to compare the two. Each warrior has both strengths and weaknesses, as I am sure you remember well.”

The terrapin’s features softened for a moment from the gentle reminder. “Yes, my friend. I remember all too well. Which is why I come to you for help in this. You helped me find my strength when it was lost to me. I hope that Michelangelo can learn similarly from you. Our time together changed me for the better. Please. Do this for me.”

The ronin held out a paw as if to grip Leo’s shoulder for a moment, but he quickly sighed and withdrew it, realizing the folly of his gesture. “Michelangelo is also not you, brother. However, I will take him as my charge, teach him what he will learn from me.”

His friend had left him very shortly after with a curt bow and a murmur of thanks, determined to follow through with his plan before Michelangelo had a chance to get comfortable after his return from his Tribunal tests.

He stared at the spot where the young shinobi yokai had evaporated into nothingness for quite some time. He could understand Leonardo’s frustration with his youngest brother, but that which the terrapin proposed to him seemed a little harsh. However Leo knew his brother far better than the rabbit did. Perhaps he also knew how to best help Michelangelo now.

Which brought the samurai to his current position, sitting in the treeline near an all too familiar clearing. He watched as the portal opened high above the ground and grimaced as he saw his friend unceremoniously push the youngest of his clan out of his homeland and into unfamiliar territory with little to no explanation.

He let out a soft sigh, still believing that this route was too rough for one such as Michelangelo. A belief that was solidified for him as he rose from his position and began to cross the distance between him and his new companion who knelt on the ground, sobbing quietly.

The rabbit cleared his throat to announce his presence and softly called out, “ Konnichiwa, Michelangelo-san. It is a pleasure to welcome you to my home.”

Michelangelo is on his feet, knuckles roughly scrubbing his gaze clear and peering in vain at the tree line as soon as he hears Usagi’s softly cleared throat. His eyes are puffy and haven’t adjusted yet, but he knows that voice. And glad as he is to hear a friendly voice calling out from the darkness, Mike’s heart squeezes with fresh anguish as he realizes the insane distance Leonardo has flung him. He had expected to end up on the opposite side of the world, marooned in New Zealand or Australia maybe.

But… this, dude! Mike’s brothers are in _a whole different universe._

There is no time to give this tragic news the reaction it deserves. The terrapin throws his pack onto his muscular arms and marches towards the sound of that unexpected greeting. Once Mike stands before the rabbit warrior, he looks dazed and grim and his face is still wet with recent tears. Still he manages to stand up straight, gives Usagi a formal 45-degree bow, and stammers politely, “ _Usagi-sama, douzo yoroshiku o-negai sh… shimasu_ **(Honored Usagi, please treat me kindly)**. Or is it Usagi-sensei?” His face rumples and his gaze plummets to the ground. “ _Shitsurei shimasu_ **(Sorry to bother you)** ,” the turtle croaks, cupping his beak suddenly in both hands. “I… can’t. I can’t keep track anymore.”  


Usagi took the last few steps needed to close the gap between the pair, his geta crunching the brittle grass beneath his feet. He tilted his head to the side, considering his companion with a cocked brow as he placed a gentle hand on the shinobi’s shoulder.

“You need not give me any special titles, Michelangelo-san. I am not your sensei, merely a guide as you learn what you may from my world.”

The ronin offered the young lad a kind smile before adding, “We are equals in this, my friend. I intend on learning just as much from you as you may learn from me.”

The samurai maintained his grip on Mikey’s shoulder for a few additional moments before dropping to his knee, pulling his own pack off of his shoulders and digging his paws into the depths. When he rose there were a few small bundles of cloth in his hands. “These were your brother’s… I am sure they will fit you as well.”

The freckled terrapin looks relieved at Usagi’s clarification. He nods hesitantly, not looking at all confident in his ability to serve as a teacher to this honorable and professional warrior his oldest brother hero-worships. But he’s not about to contradict his only ally in this strange, backwater universe.

 _Whatever you say, dude_. It’s possible that Usagi needs to know all the lyrics and dance moves to Uptown Funk, or how to make PB &J Pancake Tacos – a skill which he feels _everyone_ should know, because they are fucking delicious.

“Sumimasen **(apologetic thank you)** ,” Mike mumbles, ducking a smaller bow this time as he takes the offered bundle without hesitance. He kneels to untie the fabric, shakes loose a tightly folded assortment of traditional clothing and accessories, and picks through them uncertainly: a kimono, a cloth belt, some real baggy pants, and a black shōzoku that is stiff with age. It makes him think of Foot Clan initiates, though there is no red anywhere to be seen thankfully. He doesn’t unroll the shinobi gear completely, but sets it aside to be stashed in his pack.

The last thing Mike picks up is the wooden footwear. He holds them up dubiously before offering the weird flip-flops back to Usagi. “Nope. Can’t do shoes, man. I’m sorry! It’s like – I _tried_ , right? You have no idea. Because I have seen some human kicks that were so fucking rad, and I have been hella jealous. But even if I find a super big pair and I reshaped the soles and built up the arch and everything… uh, _hypothetically_? It still won’t fucking work. I can’t move in them! Not like I’m supposed to, anyway. When I jump, I lose so much air. It’s not worth it!”

The ronin watched as his young companion took a closer look at the garb that he had provided to him, chuckling as the turtle handed back the worn geta. The rabbit took the shoes that belonged to his dearest friend and stashed them back in his own bag, intending to give the footwear back to their owner at his next convenience.

This turtle was certainly much different in personality than Leonardo. His language was far more colorful, for one. The way he held himself was less rigid and formal. But there was still so much that was familiar about Mikey. It almost pained the samurai as he was reminded of a far simpler time.

“Dōitashimashite **(you're welcome)** , my friend. You may find that you change your mind about the foot wear as we travel, Michelangelo-san. The terrain can be rough and unforgiving. But I will respect your decision in this for now.” With that the ronin cinched his bag and threw it over his shoulders as he straightened to his full height.

Usagi turned his back on his companion, considering the road that lay in the distance as the turtle donned his new clothing. He called back over his shoulder, “If we head North the closest village is three days on foot, if we go South, likely a week’s travel. However there is more opportunity for employment if we head South. Which way would you go?”

Michelangelo’s speech is so colorful it borders on incomprehensible a lot of the time. It’s much easier to understand his Japanese. The pronunciation is pretty damn good thanks to a natural-born knack for mimicry, and the word choice is basic and concise – if overly formal. Usagi will have to forgive the fact that Mike just hasn’t had much opportunity to practice speaking Japanese to peers. Leonardo’s the only one who peppers his speech with occasional Japanese words and phrases, and never expects them to respond in kind. Raph and Don never speak it without a valid reason. It’s really only ever been demanded of him by authority figures, so these phrasings more appropriate to an elder or sensei will continue to pepper his speech every time he stops actively thinking about it.

The incredibly rapid pace once he gets going sure doesn’t help, but the primary reason his English baffles people from this world is because at least half of the words out of his mouth are slang and pop culture references. And even though his longer rants are likely to make any native’s head spin, there’s an appealing and infectious energy that pours off him when he rambles in his native tongue, like the confines of Japanese don’t allow ‘the real Mikey’ to shine through.

“Dude, I can’t navigate yet! I’m kinda busy checking me out in these bitchin’ anime pants,” Mike enthuses, looking down and holding out the fabric on one side to appreciate how incredibly wide-legged they are. “I don’t even think I gotta lug around a tent no more, cuz I can just pitch my fucking pants, right? But the problem is, we don’t got a proper waist. No hourglass figures for us turtles, so they’re gonna bust a major sag, like all the way to my ankles, the second I – _heeeey_ , would you look at this? Oh, Leo. You crafty little Boy Scout. He put these little doohickeys on the sides, so it hooks onto a belt!”

The slight smile of admiration he’d been wearing flickers out abruptly as he remembers how pissed off he is at Leo. It sucks that he can’t even mention Leo’s name without it sucking all the joy out of his heart. He quickly affixes the pants to his belt and plasters on a smile that still looks natural, chasing that fleeting feeling of enthusiasm in vain. He’ll get it back eventually. Mike’s always been a big proponent of ‘fake it ‘til you feel it’.

“Hell yeah, let’s do it! This shit is gonna be all Animal Farm meets The Last Samurai. No, wait. Let’s make that Samurai Champloo instead. Cuz, whoa. I am rocking some _sexy_ Jin cosplay right about now. I mean, all I need is, like, a fake ponytail and some glasses. And the patience to stand around being all serious and traditional while my buddy cracks jokes and fights his enemies by break-dancing… huh. I gotta rethink this.” He scratches at his scalp briefly, then beams at Usagi. “Unless you got one of these in red?”

Mike waves his hands preemptively. “Na-na, I’m playing. It’s awesome! Love it. Brings out my eyes. So, uh. Decisions, right? Navigating!” He deliberates with himself for a whole millisecond before suggesting, “Yeah, can we hit up the bigger place?”

Bigger is _way_ better, even if it means a further walk. Because the thought of strolling through a well-populated area in broad daylight and having no one scream or cause a fuss…? Wow, that sounds downright magical.

The samurai turned to consider his companion as the jovial youth began to speak. With the playful banter that was streaming forth from Michelangelo one would be hard pressed to guess that he had just been forcibly removed from his own universe and marooned on an alien planet with nothing but a rucksack and a wish of ‘good luck’.

There was certainly something about the boisterous way that Michelangelo was talking that definitely made Usagi feel as though there was much more than meets the eye. For one, the tears had not even fully dried on the young shinobi’s face, yet here he was, acting as though this is a part of his daily routine. While the samurai was sure that there was more than just a little omission behind the joyful visage which his companion displayed, he respected the fact that it seemed as though Mikey needed to shield himself from those fresh wounds.

As the ronin watched Mikey’s display he placed one hand on his hip, raising a brow curiously as a continuous stream of language that he simply did not understand filled the space between them. Words for which he simply had no cultural context, whose meaning he could only guess met his ears, each one causing his brow to raise a bit further until, he could swear, it was flush with the scar on his head.  
  
“ _Anime_ ”, “ _Boy Scout_ ”… what in the name of the Gods was this “ _Animal Farm_ ” and “S _amurai Champloo_ ”? He was not sure that he even wanted to know what a “ _cosplay_ ” was… though he did find that he was somewhat curious about this “break-dancing”, he had never heard of that martial art form before.

He had opened his mouth for a moment to let the turtle know that unfortunately it was the only outfit that he had available, but the question was waved away dismissively before he actually needed to answer it. The ronin had found that he had not actually closed his mouth afterward though, he simply remained standing, mouth agape as his new, and rather eccentric companion.

He nodded his head briefly as Michelangelo made the choice to head South, silently appreciating the shinobi’s willingness for a more arduous journey. However he was still far more in awe at the almost indecipherable speech he had just been privy to. He was far more used to Leonardo’s way of speaking, only very rarely did the leader of the shinobi clan use any words that Usagi did not understand and when he did, his friend was always quick to explain. This partnership would be far different, so it would seem, and it would certainly take a period of adjustment.

As he looked upon the eager turtle the ronin’s slack-jawed look quickly shifted into a wide grin, a hearty chuckle erupting from the seasoned veteran. “Michelangelo-san… I haven’t _any idea_ what you have just said to me!” After just a moment he brought a paw up to his face, scratching his cheek thoughtfully with a single black claw as he began to walk towards the road and added, “Well… not entirely true. I understand that you approve of your hakama… Correct? 'Bitchin’ is a positive thing, am I right, my friend?”

“Er… yeah!” Mike agrees, looking startled. “I mean, it can be. If something IS bitchin’ then it’s really impressive and, and uh – admirable. But if you say something like “quit your bitchin’’, it means stop whining and complaining. And a bitch-fest is when you and somebody else hang out together to grumble and complain about things _together_ , as buds. If you say that somebody IS a bitch, it’s insulting. It means they’re like a…. sort of a mean… cold-hearted, aggravating woman. And you say it to a dude, that’s even worse, cuz then you’re also insulting their manliness and calling them weak, or whatever.” His head cocks thoughtfully, and he kicks a sharp rock out of his path with one big green toe. “Y’know, maybe it’s not worse. I’ve only been a dude before, so I can’t vouch for the feelings of alleged female bitches.”

With a slight frown, the terrapin ponders, “If there’s no word for ‘bitch’ in this world, then… how’m I supposed to bitch about bitches? Like, talking about Oroku Karai is completely off the table now. Or… uh… huh. She’s the only one I can think of who deserves the word. All the other women in my life pretty much kick ass. So… no big loss after all, I guess.”

As he trudges alongside Usagi, the terrapin tries to thinks back on what he said earlier, trying to determine what else had been hard for Usagi to understand. Truth is, he’s already forgotten half of what he said. The TV show and book titles probably? It does make sense that the pop culture stuff wouldn’t translate. He’ll have to watch out for that. Apparently curse words are a no-go as well…. or are they?

“What about ‘fuck’?” Mike looks over at Usagi and asks, cheerfully blunt, “Do you guys say ‘fuck’ in this world? Because that one’s essential. I’m pretty sure if Raph got stranded in a world where he couldn’t say fuck, he would hardly be able to talk. It would mostly be one-syllable words and frustrated caveman grunting.” It may sound like he is bashing his brother with this description, but Mike says this from across an ocean of fondness.

Usagi nodded as the pair picked their way across the open field, toward the dirt road in the distance. He had often found Leonardo’s way of speaking hard to understand but it was nothing compared to Michelangelo. In the past he had been made well aware of the turtle’s language being comprised of many words that held many meanings… but this seemed wholly unnecessary. The next question however brought a chuckle to the ronin. ‘Fuck’ was a word he had become well acquainted with.

He brought one paw up, twisting the longer fur on his chin thoughtfully and said, “That is a word that I have heard your brother use on occasion…” In that moment the samurai was glad for the cover of darkness which served to hide the faintest hint of a blush that touched his cheeks, he quickly added, “So… if I am not mistaken, 'bitchin’ is a term of endearment. So cease one’s 'bitchin’ is to end a complaint…. a 'bitch-fest’ is gossip and a 'bitch’ is an unscrupulous person. Unless directed at a man, in which case you are calling him female?”

Something Usagi says stops Mike in his tracks briefly, He jogs a few steps to match back up to his companion’s pace. But then the samurai keeps translating his terms all wrong! Translating things is harder than he thought it would be. “Term of endearment? It sounds like flowery pink words, the kind you would find inside greeting cards. And there was a show or a movie or something called Terms of Endearment, but I never saw it. And… you didn’t either, heh. Yeah, uh - gossip and bitchfest are totally different things. Gossip’s just heeeeeey girl, listen to all this exciting stuff I heard. But a bitch fest is like, UGH, so much is awful. Your life, my life. Isn’t this thing awful? Yeah, I hate that shit.” Mike had to move on at that point. His imaginary bitchfesters were starting to remind him Don and Raph, the lair’s undisputed masters of gloom and sarcasm lately. “Umm. Unscrupulous doesn’t even start to capture the nuance of a proper bitch, Oroku Karai is not merely _unscrupulous_ , okay? She’s heinous, black-hearted….” He has to stop here. He wants more words, uglier words, and suddenly his mind is assaulted with nothing but slang and cuss words.

_Don’t get upset. Don’t get angry. Don’t scare Usagi away. Save it for later, just get it under control._

Mike is quiet for too long, but nothing can be done about it. He doesn’t trust his calm or his words yet, and winds up gazing at the ground, watching the wind stir over the grass in front of him.

Usagi replaced his paw within the sleeve of his kimono, pursing his lips slightly. He always hated how he felt incredibly dull-witted when it came to the world of his dearest friend, it seemed that it was not a phenomenon which he would escape any time soon. “Many apologies for my misunderstanding, Michelangelo-san. I think that I shall just keep the mastery of colorful vocabulary in your very capable hands.”

“Naw, naw… don’t say that,” Mike clears his throat and insists quietly, in that persistent rasp, “We’ll figure it out. I just probably suck as a teacher. For real, nobody should ever follow me. Maybe on Tumblr, but no where else.” The young turtle flinches. “Sorry! I’m sorry. I did it again, know! Yer gonna hafta bear with me for a bit.”

The ronin chuckled at his new found companion, “You need not apologize. I am sure it will take adjustment for each of us to grow accustomed to one another’s mannerisms.”

“So Leo really cusses in front of you?” Michelangelo wonders, shifting the pack on his shoulders. “He don’t really do that in front of us. He’s always gotta be a good example. I guess you got to see a different side of him.”

Usagi nodded at his companion but kept his eyes focused on the path before them. “It has been known to happen, yes. Though it was fairly infrequent, mind you…”

“Dude, I’m SO mad at him,” Mike huffs. His arms are tucked against his plastron, gripping the leather straps in his fists. “And I know he’s, like, your obvious bestie. So I’m not about to – I’m not gonna make you sit there and listen to me having a solo bitchfest.” He peeks over at Usagi. “Ya hear that? Used it in a sentence.”

Usagi turned and flashed an understanding smile at the young shinobi, “You should feel free to 'bitch-fest’ about this. I am able to hear your complaints about the predicament in which you currently find yourself without It tainting my own feelings.” The ronin let out a small sigh and added, “I did tell him that I thought this was unnecessary, but once he sets his mind to something it is near impossible to sway his course.”  
  
“True _that_ , yo,” Mike grumbles, against his better judgement. “He thinks he knows what’s best for everybody. And he won’t even explain how he knows what he knows. He’s not real big on sharing lately. Or listening. At least, not to me…” He’s trying to get a proper bitchfest going, but it feels a bit weird talking bad about Leo to this one. It’s not like his duty-obsessed recluse of a big brother has many close friends to begin with. Michelangelo bets he could count them on one hand.

Usagi turned his head to properly look at Michelangelo as they walked. He nodded and began to speak quietly, “Michelangelo-san… It is your brother’s duty to do what he thinks is best for your clan. It is a tremendous responsibility and one that I do not envy. I do not wish to speak on behalf of Leonardo, nor defend his actions, they are his and his alone. However, I can say that he sees great potential in you, as does your council. This course would not have been undertaken were it not agreed by all those looking out for your best interests that this is an opportunity for your growth. You may find that you even enjoy learning what you may from this land and thank him for it in the future.”  
  
“I guess weirder things have happened?” Mike declares with a forlorn sigh. “But to be honest, Usagi-san… maybe the best thing you and this land can teach me right now is how to… how to survive as a Ronin. At least that way I can’t bring more dishonor to the Hamato clan than I already have.”

Usagi set his jaw at the request. He almost could not believe what it was this child was asking of him. As they got to the dirt road and finally turned South the rabbit responded in an almost pained voice, “My friend… there is no honor to be found in the life of a ronin. To be a ronin in and of itself is a dishonor. I can teach you how to survive in the elements. I can teach you how to find work. I can even teach you how to kill effectively, but do not think that learning to live as I do will bring you honor, it is truly a life of dishonor that I lead.”

When Usagi offers to teach him to kill effectively, Michelangelo gives a brief, mirthless laugh and looks away. “I’m not sayin’ the life of a ronin is supposed to redeem me, Usagi-san,” he explains hoarsely, and more kindly than Leo would have spoken in such a black and self-deprecating mood. “I’m sayin’, it’s probably what I _deserve_.”

The way that the young turtle had laughed chilled Usagi to the core. It would seem that Michelangelo’s weapons may not be as clean as the ronin had believed. Though he, of course, was not one to pass judgement on this, his own body count far exceeded that of almost any that he knew, but he could not pretend that it did not take him by surprise.

“While you are my companion you will learn my way of life and, if you dedicate yourself to learning, you should be able to become proficient in the ways of survival. But I do not condone the thought of willingly living the life of a ronin. It is not a path I walk by choice, nor should it be yours.”

“Fer real, man. It’s not what I would choose if… things were different. It sounds kinda lonely. I’d always rather be around other people than on my own.” The terrapin in the orange mask readjusts his grip on the straps of his pack and looks up at the stars. “Maybe that’s what I’m supposed to learn: how not to need other people so much.”

Mike glances nervously aside at Usagi. He is worried at the potential rudeness of his next question, but feels compelled to ask it nonetheless. “How did you lose your clan, Usagi-san? Did you do something real bad..?”

Usagi kept his eyes trained on the path before him, he was not offended by the question, but it was a touchy subject, regardless.

“When I was much younger than I am now and had just finished my training of bushido I was chosen to serve under my master, Lord Mifune. I had quickly ascended within his ranks until I was one of his most trusted samurai. We were caught in a battle with a man by the name of Lord Hekiji. During the battle I, along with another samurai, were directly assigned to protect my master’s flanks.

The tide of battle turned, not in our favor. The other warrior who was to stay at Lord Mifune’s side betrayed us, fleeing from the field of battle with his tail between his legs. I was unable to protect him and he suffered a fatal blow from his unguarded flank.

Before our enemies could disgrace the body of my Lord I beheaded him, fleeing from the battle myself in order to give him a proper burial rather than see his head upon a pike. But I left my clan to suffer the consequences of a battle, obviously lost.”

“Dude. That’s fucked up,” Mike points out with a frown of offense on his new companion’s behalf. “You got betrayed, Usagi-san! The battle was already… that’s so stupid! I’m pretty sure my clan would just be glad I didn’t die in that situation. I’d be pretty bummed. I’d be all, yeah, but my important dude back there! And Leo would say, “Forget that. Thank the ancestors you’re okay!” And Raph would lovetap me and say ‘Ya did yer best, so quit cryin’ about it.“ And Don would say something about likeliest outcomes and the percentages of so fucking outnumbered that we were, and I would just look at him blankly til he remembered who he was talking to and go, "Let’s order a pizza, Mikey. Any kind you want.” And…“ He cuts himself off abruptly, his brow creased deeply and shaking his head. "That sounds like… a really harsh clan, is all I’m sayin’.”

Usagi could not repress the small grin that tugged at his lips at Mikey’s exuberant defense of him and of the colorful explanation of how the situation may have turned out differently were it his clan. The ronin chuckled lightly turned his head towards his companion. The smile that accompanied his raised brow showed clearly that we had taken no offense. “You are lucky to have a family as you do, my friend. I do want you to understand that my clan did not abandon me or cast me out, Michelangelo-san. My clan was simply no more. Had I not been able to at least prevent Lord Mifune’s body from desecration, which I honestly feel redeemed me to a certain point, I would have committed seppuku to join them.”

“Oh… wow.” Michelangelo feels like an ass now. The idea that Usagi’s whole clan had been decimated had not occurred to him. “Uh. Sorry.” His tongue darts to wet the edges of his mouth uncertainly. “We don’t really believe in that. I mean. We believe other clans do it. We’re not, like, in total denial about it. But we don’t think it’s… we don’t condone it.” He glances down at himself, and knocks a fist gently to indicate the hard plastron underneath his new Gin cosplay outfit. “Plus, it would be hard. I think we’d need some kind of hand saw…”

Mike claps a hand sharply over his beak and cringes with sudden humiliation. “F-forgive me, Usagi-san,” he says through his fingers. “I know it’s not cool to joke about something like that! It’s a serious and awful thing and I didn’t mean to be disrespectful! I dunno why –” His voice cracks and his eyes pool, “why I’m like this…”

Usagi cringed at the response that he had gotten from his young shinobi companion. Perhaps he should have made it a point to keep things a little more lighthearted than this while Michelangelo was still adjusting to his new lot in life. The ronin stopped in his tracks, reaching a paw out to catch ahold of the turtle’s kimono.

“Michelangelo-san, please wait. You need not apologize or feel any grief on my account. I understand that you did not mean any harm and I assure you that I take no offense.”

“Right, uh-” Mike uncovers his mouth and quickly scrubs at his flushed face with the back of his hand. “Good, that’s–” He nods lamely and swallows. “Sorry. I been hardcore burned for not being respectful lately… like, a lot. And it’s just.” He runs out of air and pauses to take a shuddering breath. “I can’t let that happen with you. I dunno what kind of mess I’d be right now if you weren’t here.”

Usagi took a step forward and placed his paw on Michelangelo’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. It had to be extremely painful to be in the situation that the young turtle was in right now and the samurai’s heart went out to the lad. He looked up to the taller warrior, his gaze softening as he let out a soft sigh. “Michelangelo-san, you need not worry, my friend. You gave no disrespect.” The rabbit smiled kindly and added, “It has been a long evening for you… I think it may be for the best that we break for camp for tonight. Perhaps things will not seem so bad in the light of day.”

Michelangelo nods slowly. He would love for what Usagi is saying to be true, but he’s not convinced of it. Tomorrow everything will still be perfectly awful. But he doesn’t voice these words. He doesn’t want to sound like such a downer. That’s not who he wants to _be_.  
  
So he says nothing, and follows Usagi to where the samurai rabbit has set up what appears to Mike as a fairly impressive campsite. His bloodshot blue eyes look first to the little woven lean-to, a marvel of sticks bundled into an orderly row and laced together with vines, all of it resting on a cross brace tied up between two trees with what looks like a length of strong silk-woven rope. There’s also the remains of a camp fire which has clearly been lit, and could easily be lit again. The firewood and tinder have already been laid out in preparation.

It looks like so much _work_ for a temporary shelter. Meanwhile, Mike can’t be bothered to put the sticks in his tent most of the time. “I mostly sleep in the trees,” he comments absently, glancing around at several good options he has already spotted. His trusty shuko spikes make tree climbing pretty easy, and his idea of a ‘good option’ actually means ‘not easily climbable by someone who is not a ninja’.

The young turtle bids Miyamoto Usagi a humble good night, but doesn’t actually attempt sleep for some time. Evidence of his wakefulness is left all over the camp the following morning. Designs have been drawn into the dirt on all four sides of the camp, at the cardinal points.  
  
Flame designs, sharp and flickering lines that spread out from a pile of ashes that remain of the small fire he borrowed from Usagi’s campfire. Earth is represented by a small cairn of stacked stones, and round vibrations are drawn in the dirt as if vibrating out from it. The next is water, many liquid wave zig zags, all agitated and exciting – though the splash from his canteen which he dumped in the middle of this section has probably long evaporated by the time Usagi wakes. Finally, air displayed as lots of short, gradually further spaced ripples drawn into the dirt around a bundle of silver-headed dandelion puffs, the stems tied together with stalks of crab grass into a delicate bouquet.

He drew all of this, arranged all of this, without making a sound or doing anything to wake Usagi.

Originally, this whole masterpiece was supposed to be a tribute to Avatar: The Last Airbender, but by the end of it his thoughts were turned fully to Leonardo’s teachings, all the stuff he had said about _godai_. When he does finally return to his collapsed camouflage tent high in the tree branches, he gazes down at his creation and decides that the fifth element doesn’t need representation. The representation of void and sky is up here in the trees with him.


	2. Benched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raphael and Donatello are helpless as they witness their little brother being exiled with no explanation of where he is being sent. Their leader has announced that he, too, will be leaving them for an undetermined amount of time, leaving the middle children of the Hamato clan to fend for themselves. But how will Raphael cope with his new title as deputy leader of the Hamato clan, especially while caring for his genius brother - who is becoming more unstable every day?

The scene that was unfolding before his eyes was horrific. If he did not have Raphael fuming by his side he would be convinced that he had been thrown into one of his nightmares. The leader of their clan had backed Michelangelo into a corner, the blinded ninja speaking of dishonor and failure with a venom that Donatello had never heard from his older brother before in all his years.

When Leo sunk to the floor and began to draw an intricate design it took the genius the breadth of a heartbeat to realize what his intentions were. Donatello’s jaw dropped as the portal ripped open on the dingy cement floor of their subterranean home.

He had taken a step forward as Leo grabbed Mikey by the shoulders and pushed him towards the magical opening.

Mikey had struggled, more out of surprise than defiance, knocking Leo’s glasses off with a well placed throw of his elbow. As the glasses slid across the cement Mikey was flung forward through the opening to… who knows where…

“Did you – have you lost your _mind_?” His voice cracked as he shouted at their fearless leader. But his own protest was drowned out by the fierce shout beside him.

“What the HELL, Leo!?” Raph sounded far past the point of anger. His shout was mingled with fear and disbelief, a sound that chilled the young genius to the core.

Both he and his red clad brother rushed to the portal, into which Leo still glared. As he came up behind the oldest of the clan Donatello felt desperate tears begin to sting his eyes. He quickly blinked away the mutinous tears, instead shouting at the back of Leo’s head. “Leo, this is madness! He – he only just got home! Bring him back, and let’s talk about this! You can’t just…”

“ _No_ ,” The word was definitive. Final. And spoken with such a harshness that it did not sound like his brother, “He should not have returned yet. You know that, and he damn well knows it.”

Mikey’s voice could be heard, weak and scared, calling up through the portal. The purple banded turtle could hear the desperate pleading which was answered with even more harshness. Leo rose and stalked out of the room and Raph took over the position, kneeling by the portal.

As Raphael spoke down into the portal Donatello’s attention was far more focused on the actions of his leader who had begun stuffing Mikey’s large rucksack with essentials for travel… a lot of travel from the looks of it.

Don turned to the opening, dropping down beside Raph and staring at his youngest brother some fifteen feet below. “He’s getting your traveling bag ready, I think? Restocking it with food. You’re going to have to do a better job this time with rationing…”

“Like hell he is! Mikey ain’t going nowhere. That Tribunal can eat my ass!”

“I don’t think Leo is going to…”

“Leo can eat my ass too! Now get in there, and use your fancy logic to talk him OUT of this crazy scheme – or I’m going in there with my style of persuasion!”

Donatello’s set his jaw. He felt that the attempt was futile but worth a shot. “I’ll try,” he agrees before rushing to Leo’s side.

“Leo, please you need to reconsider this. You cannot expect that _THIS_ will make Mikey more fit in the eyes of the council. I am sure if we talk to them-”

His brother rounded on him. Those sightless eyes piercing him to his very core. “This is for the best Donatello. Now stand down!”

Donatello took a deep breath. He was not one to defy a direct order. Especially not from Leonardo. But he mustered his courage and snapped back, “This is INSANE, Leo! You cannot do this. Mikey could get seriously hurt!”

Leo snarled at the genius brother, causing Donnie to rock back on his heels. “Not as hurt as he will be if he fails our family again. Now. Stand. Down.”

Donatello bit back any further response, knowing that this discussion was officially closed. He lowered his head and quietly mumbled, “ _Hai_. I am sorry, sensei.”

With that the genius terrapin turned on his heel and walked back into the living room. Defeat was replaced with panic as the scene lay out before him. Raph had both of his hands wrapped around Mikey’s arm, which was the only part of Mikey’s body which protruded from the quickly dissipating portal.

 _Had he lost his mind_? Raphael knew full well what the loss of _that arm_ could mean for Michelangelo. For all of them. Leo’s blindness had already come to fruition, he would be damned if he let more of those fateful omens come to pass. He quickly ran across the cement floor, drawing his bo off his back. Anger unlike any that he could recall burst forth from him as he aimed the staff at Raphael’s clasped hands. “What are you idiots _doing_!?”

There is a cracking sound that resonates through the vast lair as he hit his mark with more force than he would use on even most of his enemies. He would deal with the repercussions later. For now, all that mattered is that Raph dropped his grip on Mikey, who’s precious limb disappeared back through the portal.

“Mother fucker! Your broke my fucking wrist!”

“Not that arm! _What_ have I told you? We do not dangle him through a _shrinking_ magical portal by _that arm_ , you fucking Neanderthal!”

“He’s fine, Donnie.” Leo said In a much calmer voice as he reentered the room and made his way to the nearly closed portal, “Get out of my way, both of you.”

“You guys are going to kill each other without me around to lighten the mood,” Mike points out softly. He gives Leo a look of appeal, but his brother’s visage is impenetrable.

Leonardo crouches down so that he can still be seen through the considerably smaller portal. “They’ll be fine,” he intones gravely. “And so will you. Here.”

There is barely room to stuff the familiar traveling pack through the hole that remains. It lands at Mike’s feet with a thump.

Right before the portal closes, Leonardo murmur gently, “Good luck, _otouto_. You can do this.”

The portal closes with a snap, leaving the three turtles alone in the lair. Leonardo almost immediately turns his back on the other two turtles and stalks off to his room, closing the door with a snap.

Donatello scrambled to his feet in order to pursue his hot headed brother who had already begun to chase after their sensei. He grasped Raphael by the arm as he spoke, “Raph, _stop_! I need to splint your wrist right away. You are going to cause far more damage if you-”

The red clad shinobi shrugged his arm out of his brother’s grip, snarling through gritted teeth, “Back off, Leo ain't gonna get away with this shit, Dee. We don’t even know where the _Hell_ he just sent Mikey, for fuck’s sake!”

Donatello sped up, barring Raphael’s path a determined and fierce look in his russet eyes, “I said _STOP_!” The shout was loud enough to reverberate off the cavernous walls of the lair and while Donatello had lost a fair amount of weight, the dark circles under his eyes far more pronounced than usual, he presented a rather menacing vision as he stood before the larger turtle with his bo at the ready. “Leo is not going anywhere. Going in there and getting in a alpha male brawl will not bring Mikey back. I am this clan’s medical advisor and you will do as I say, Raph. _So sit down before I break the other fucking hand_!”

He was sure that his brother knew that his threat was more bark than bite. In an honest hand to hand fight Raphael would definitely hold the upper hand, however, the display of dominance from the purple banded shinobi seemed to take Raphael by surprise, stopping the brutish turtle in his tracks. He looked for a moment as though he may protest but instead he let out a growl and replied, “Cool your fuckin’ jets. And make it quick.”

Donatello’s posture slackened a little when he realized that Raph was going to at least humor him for a brief moment. He let out a small sigh of relief, turning his back on his brother for a moment to fetch one of the many first aid kits that he kept stashed around the lair.

When he turned back to apply the medical aid he was instead greeted with an empty lair and the sight of red bandana tails disappearing into Leo’s room.

The genius ran full tilt towards the door and tried to wrench it open, but the door had been barred from the inside, effectively preventing him from further pursuit. He growled and slammed his fist on the door as the small sound proof indicating light flicked to life above the door frame.

Leonardo was not the only one that had officially made it onto Donatello’s shit list tonight.

Raphael really did plan to humor Don. That rare snap of pure command in his tone, coupled with such a violent threat, it just sounds… _wrong_. If it were being growled through his own bared teeth, it would sound commonplace bordering on tame. But somehow, it sounds downright ugly coming from this one who had been his most gentle and peace-loving brother. _That_ was the protest which Don saw forming Raphael’s eyes.

But he could think of nothing to say about these changes that wouldn’t humiliate both of them. Nothing that wouldn’t sound hypocritical as hell. Nothing that Don didn’t probably already know and hate about himself. So why say anything?

Don is not that guy anymore. Hasn’t been for awhile now, and it’s been fucking hard to accept that.

But as Don turns away, Raph is determined to accept it. _Someone in this family’s got to be able to look at Don and really see him_ , he tells himself. Leo and Mike are deep in denial – or, more often – too caught up in their own shit to notice any difference. But they’re both dealing with such heavy shit right now. It’s just been one crazy-awful-fucking-thing after the next, so can you blame them?

And… crud. Has this really happened? Have his feelings about Leo gone from head-pounding rage to sympathy in the blink of an eye?

That’s when he hears it. Maybe he did actually hear it before, and only processed it subconsciously, but now his head snaps up to squint at Leo’s door. He’d been pretty sure of what he’d heard when he looked up – but with every moment of silence that ticked by, Raph grew less certain.

When it came again, Raphael didn’t think – didn’t hesitate. He launched silently off the wall, ready to catch the rail around the upper landing with his massive scarred hands—

One of which was in agony, turning purple, already fat with swelling. _Shit, fuck_!

He realizes his mistake _just_ in the nick of time, but still manages a silent recovery. He shifts to prepare his body for a one-handed grip, and doesn’t try to flip but just braces to accept the rapidly approaching concrete on the pads of his toes, remembers to exhale all air from his lungs, and this keeps him from grunting or making any sound at all as he hits the wall.

He hangs there for a second. Just long enough to draw a steady and readying breath. Then he’s pushing off and over the rail and launching off it from an angle that will maximize distance. But of course, there is no geometry going through his mind to manage any of this. It’s just practice and dedication, so much of it that by now it’s all muscle memory and subconscious instinct.

There’s no way around it – Raphael is a phenomenal ninja these days. Everything he does looks effortless.

It’s pure luck that Don even saw him, because Raph never made a sound. He was moving so quickly that just one more second of fussing with the contents of his first aid kit and Donatello would have been staring at an empty room.

He slaps the sound proofing button as soon as the door is closed behind him and crosses the remaining distance in a flash. Dropping to his knees, Raphael’s powerful arms encircle their sobbing leader, already coaching in an urgent murmur, “Hey, shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, man. We got this.”

Donatello isn’t the only one who needs to be inflicted with Raphael’s fierce and non-optional bear hugs lately.

They talk for a while. It’s maybe half an hour before Raphael emerges. When he does, the injured wrist has been tended with a makeshift splint: salvaged cloth re-purposed as bandages, carefully wrapped around a pair of painted wooden chopsticks.

Man, it hurts. He’s _really_ feeling it now. He promised Leo he would go put some ice on it. But when he comes out onto the balcony that rings the common area, he looks down to see Don waiting there on the couch and looking SO pissed off. One leg bouncing impatiently, wearing a scowl that could peel paint… yeah. That ice pack is gonna have to wait.

Raphael jumps the balcony and lands casually, because fuck stairs. He comes right over to sit on the edge of the arm rest nearest Don and looks very serious for a beat or two, not saying anything. Should he apologize, or cut to the chase? As usual, Raph pitches the tangle of lame, half-formed niceties he had been trying to compose and decides to go for bold.

“We can’t bring Mikey home yet. We gotta follow Leo’s plan. And… I _know_. I know it’s probably the last thing you wanna hear me say. And it doesn’t change – I mean –” He’s not the best at speeches. Let’s face it, he’s the absolute worst. Unable to articulate, especially when it matters. He chuffs in frustration. “When you do work up the nerve to tell Leo that you refuse to go off on any stupid training, I’m with you on that, I swear, Don - on my life, ain’t nobody gonna make you. But Mikey, he… he _already agreed_ to this.”

Raphael’s gaze had drifted off across the room, but now it refocuses on Don. His eyes squint and his voice gets much softer as he admits, “It’s _worse_ than we thought, Donnie. Whatever’s going on with Mike… it’s _really_ not good.”

The turtle’s eyes are emphatic, holding Don’s for another beat. “Leo – he couldn’t say too much, but I could tell that he _wants_ to. It got real obvious back there, how bad he needs to talk to somebody about all this. But he _can’t_ , _not_ while the – while the trial is still pending. Because, surprise - Mike’s on _trial_ , I guess? Like, he’s facing some kinda charges for crimes against the Tribunal – some real bad shit that went down a while ago.” He hunches forward and shakes his head, the movement slow and heavy with concern. “In order to get those charges dropped, I guess Mike took a deal.”

Donatello’s piercing gaze follows Raph’s graceful descent from the upper landing of their subterranean home. As The red-clad shinobi straightened himself to his full height and crossed the room toward him Donatello’s only response was to purse his lips even further and narrow his gaze at the older terrapin.

The young genius had half a mid to shove Raph off of the arm of the couch when he casually took up the position next to him, but Donatello had always been, if nothing else, patient. He waited while Raph explained himself.While the explanation did nothing to sooth the white hot anger that burned within him due to what he viewed as Raphael’s utter betrayal and diminishing of his post and duties to the clan, it did spark a new-found curiosity at Mikey’s early return from his training period and expulsion from their home.

He looked up to his brother, cocking a brow at the vague details which Raph had let slip. This did not answer any questions, really, it simply created more.

His voice was sharp and bitter, but he did not perseverate on his feeling towards Raphael, rather he shifted his position on the couch, taking his brother’s injured hand between his, inspecting the wrap that Leo had put on it. While the wrap would make due, Donatello began to quickly undo the bindings, intent to replace the chopsticks with an actual splint. “So Mikey got himself into some deep trouble? That figures. Only he could fuck up so badly that the tribunal council would take notice of it.”

The wooden sticks dropped to the floor, quickly to be replaced by the metal splints that Donatello had created specifically to fit their reptilian hands. With an expert and well practiced skill the genius started to twist his sterile white warps around the damaged hand.

“And _no_. I am not going to any Tribunal Training. As you, so eloquently, put it : _The Tribunal can eat my ass_.” The purple banded shinobi let out a snort and added, “I am not their puppet, I would commit seppuku before going to jump through their hoops.”

When the bandage was in place the turtle reached into the open box beside him, grabbing an instant cool pack, he quickly began breaking up the gel substance within it to start the cooling chemical reaction. This, too, was applied to Raph’s hand, Donatello holding it firmly onto the break with possibly slightly more pressure than what was wholly necessary.

He still had a scowl on his face but let out a small sigh and asked in a tone that was far more weary than it was angry, “Did you _at least_ find out where Leo sent Mike?”

“No,” Raphael admits. “And even if I did, what would it matter? Did ‘ya learn how to make dimensional doors when I wasn’t looking? Maybe there’s a Magic Ninja Portals For Dummies e-book or somethin’ that we can look through.”

Donatello rolled his eyes and made an impatient clicking sound with his tongue. In a tone simply dripping with sarcasm he quipped, “Oh, there was one, but the torrent was corrupted.”

“Oh yeah, I fuckin’ hate that,” Raph agrees automatically, completely straight-faced, like he torrents things all the goddamned time.  
  
The genius shinobi chuckles lightly, he was still angry with his older brother but could not help but appreciate how easily Raphael could always slip into playful banter with him. His eyes focused on the swollen appendage in his grasp, letting out a small sigh he quietly said, “I didn’t mean to break it, Raph… I just _freaked out_ …”

“I know,” Raphael says quietly, letting Don off with an easy tone that doesn’t require apologies or explanations. He knows better than any of them what it’s like to flip the fuck out and accidentally hurt someone. In return, he offers, “I wasn’t thinking. I was just trying to get him back. Hey, I’ll do a better job next time. Looking out for those – kinda – y'know.” Raph can’t quite bring himself to use a cringe-worthy word like ‘omens’ in casual conversation. But from the serious and troubled scowl he is giving his kneepads, it’s very clear in this moment that Raphael is a true believer. He’s not thinking that Leonardo going blind is some big coincidence or that it’s all in Donnie’s head. The threat is real, and it is one they must remember guard against every single day. Raphael knows that he blew it.

The truth is, he feels a lot more sorry about that than he does for letting Leonardo doctor his wrist instead of Don. The muscular turtle pauses before dropping the next bomb “Leo’s going back to Japan.“ He waits several beats, then amends wryly, "Which probably don’t sound like much, since Leo goes to Japan like most people go to the bathroom…” Magical portals are convenient like that. “But what I’m saying is… Leo’s gonna be stuck in Japan. Probably for a while. He’s gonna help the team evaluating Mike. All of ‘em gotta to stay in some… I dunno, a smaller temple with some kinda one-way shield around it, so nobody can muck with the judges and rig the results, r'somethin’?”

He shrugs. “And you and I are getting benched. Me for the injury, and you for –” Mental health reasons. Those were the words Leo used, but Raph’s not fucking saying that. His mouth ticks up at one corner, amending with sympathy, “flipping the fuck out, I guess.”

Donatello nodded, his eyes still focused on the wounded hand in his grip. He knew that Raph understood why this had happened. His brother fully understood the nightmare that had become Don’s every waking moment. Raphael was the only one that understood.

This, like so many other things, would likely become one of those things that the pair did not speak of. Like all of the punches and scratches that Raph had taken without hesitation while trying to pull the purple clad shinobi out of so many panic attacks.

Russet eyes flicked upward at the mention of Leo’s plans. It was true that their leader often took brief constitutionals to Japan, but it sounded to him as though this trip would be quite the extended affair. If the council needed the leader of their clan to be watching Mikey’s trial it seemed that this was far more convoluted than he originally thought.

He couldn’t care less if the Tribunal wanted him benched, but Raphael’s half-ass shielding of his pride brought an incredulous laugh from his lips. He shot his brother a look that clearly said that he wasn’t fooled. “For being unstable. I think the word you are looking for is unstable.”

“I dunno, Don,” Raph mutters, scratching his chin uncertainly. “DO I say 'unstable’ more often than I drop F-bombs? No, as a matter 'a fact. I think I meant to say the words I fucking said!” He gives Don a gentle shove with his off-hand. “Also… compared to _who_ , exactly? Leo and Mike? Gimme a break. Anyway, the Tribunal didn’t bench us - they wanted the whole clan under watch. It was Leo’s own idea, and I’m not about to argue. I mean… don’t you see _any_ potential in this arrangement? Just you and me, holding down the fort while the crazy magic turtles are off somewhere, runnin’ around and bein’ magical and crazy? We don’t gotta patrol. Leo says you can use the computer to keep tabs on New York if you want to. Attack digitally, right? And y'know, we gotta do some training. But I was thinking, like… 3pm start time? 4pm? We work hard, we’ll play hard. Whatchya think?” In his twenty-four years, Raphael has never seen the Hamato clan’s training schedule dictated by the two night owls in the family.

He still wasn’t entirely convinced by Raph’s spiel. A part of him often thought that his older brother viewed him as if he were walking a razor’s edge, that any moment the genius terrapin would simply lose it in a way that Raph would not be able to pull him back from. Beneath all of the gruff, bad-boy appearances, Donatello often saw those glimmers of concern that touched Raph’s eyes. _Concern and pity_. At times it made his stomach churn… Mostly because he knew it was true.

The proposals of the new schedule, however… he could certainly see the potential in that.

He raised a playful brow and asked, “How about alarms at three-thirty and we can start when I have finished my coffee and sudoku?”

“Yeah, you do that,” Raph puffs with challenge and gets in Don’s face, but it’s all playful these days. Unlike the very rocky period when Leo’s performance was being judged, there is never any real threat of violence in his rough playacting. This is just what friendly _looks_ like on Raph. “Go play Sudoku. Go solve really basic math problems inside of boxes. Play a game that’s supposed ta make little grannies and fifty shades of housewife feel like they could maybe be super-geniuses because they made it to the Master section of their shitty little book from the Seven Eleven, Don. That sounds like a real swell game for ya. Couldn’t possibly be doing anything else in yer lab there, with all yer _air circulation and your hand sanitizer_ , and all that.”

His tone has become dripping and wry. “Go play some fucking Sudoku before we train if you want to, Donnie. I’ll take my coffee black and probably be outside, by myself, having a smoke.”

Donatello put a mock look of offense on his face as Raphael flung his insults at the game that Don played every morning. The genius knew that it was a frivolous game and it was far below him intellectually, but he enjoyed the monotony and simplicity of it. Raph’s second comment actually did take him back a bit, though.

Raphael knew that he smoked. The pair of them had shared many after late night panic attacks and nightmares. However Donatello had always been slightly omissive about the actual amount that he smoked. The air filters in his lab, heavy ventilation systems and air full of heavy chemical smells had always been enough to mask the truth of just how heavy of a smoker he had become. Donatello did his best not to look surprised by the knowledge that, apparently, he was not as sneaky as he thought. Instead he brought one hand up, making a quick clawing motion and giving his brother his best impression of an angry cat. “ _Rrreawr_. If you wanted a morning smoke buddy, you just had to ask, Raph.”

“Well, that’s what I _thought_ I was doin’.” Raphael’s grin broadens. “Y’know. In my own special, asshole kinda way.”

Donatello IS every bit as sneaky as he thinks he is. Nobody else has got a clue. Raph _himself_ wouldn’t know if he hadn’t been allowed to see Don at his weakest. Now that he’s wised up, he’ll be harder to fool.

“I’m goin’ shopping at the B&E tonight Getting some food for the lair – couple cartons, if you wanna tell me your brand? Or anything else ya’ need?” The days of collecting butts are long gone, apparently.

‘Shopping at the B&E’ is Raph-speak for breaking into a store, taking whatever he wants, and leaving a pile of money behind. It’s one of those things he has been doing for ages – something which Team Mystic hates on principal, but will still turn a blind eye enough to eat the damn groceries. He’s not afraid to talk openly about this stuff with Don, though. Team Rebel are practical sorts.

Donatello flashes a grin at his older brother as the red-clad shinobi used the code name that he had made up for their very special way of shopping. He had, over the years, heard Raph be scolded fiercely for this practice, but it seemed that it was an acceptable enough act to allow it to continue to this day.

The genius shifted his cold pack to a lower section of Raph’s wrist, trying to prevent any further swelling. "American Spirits, menthol… And we could probably use some more rubbing alcohol.”

The truth was, Donatello’s stores actually had plenty of rubbing alcohol in them, but the team medic always began to feel uneasy when he had under fifteen bottles available to him.

Raph has no problem trusting that more rubbing alcohol is required. Aside from the actual thieving and hauling, he’s never had to pay much attention to supply chain and inventory stuff. This is largely Don’s area, thanks to his knack for meticulous record-keeping and methods of organization that mostly baffle the rest of them.

The red-masked turtle gives Don a wry and patient look. “Any source of calories you wanna put on the list, that I can getcha to actually eat without too much prodding? Cause you know if you leave it up to me, it’s gonna be pure fuel, man. Lean meat, peanut butter, protein shakes.”

Donatello shrugged in response, the truth was that he had found it harder and harder to bring himself to eat lately, regardless of what it was. When he was able to finally get something down the feeling of food on his stomach often left him feeling sick, though it did help with some of the dizziness.

“I dunno, Raph. I guess if you wanted to pick up some yogurts or something I will get around to eating them.”

Sometimes it was almost harder having someone know what he was going through. It meant that Raph was also always keeping an eye on him. Always watching for him to backslide in his progress. While he appreciated his confidant more than words could describe he also felt an extreme guilt from the knowledge that his burden was also raph’s to bare.

“Maybe some ramen, too?”

“Yogurt’s good, actually. I should probably eat more of that too. Ramen, ehh,” Raph waggles his non-injured hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. “Leo would say it’s just empty carbs and sodium, but… fuck it.” He tilts his head at Don consideringly. “It seems like you don’t eat for pleasure any more than I do. Ramen takes longer to cook than all the shit I make. I bet you could knock back one of my shakes in one gulp, polish off a protein bar in two bites, and be back to working on whatever with no clean up or downtime. If we focused your training sessions on weight gain and muscle building it would do you a lot more good than…” He was speaking with enthusiasm, genuinely passionate these days about the whole process of building muscle. But all at once it occurs to Raph, how annoying he must sound. Like he’s trying too hard to fix Don. Or worse, maybe he will seem as bossy and controlling as Leo - and before Leo has left for Japan, even!

Raph’s face creases briefly, awash with all these doubts “Wait, I don’t mean – you can tell me to fuck off. You don’t need to be ANY other way, for me, or for anyone else. I just mentioned it cuz… I dunno, weight gain, strength-building… I’m good at that stuff lately. And I KNOW we could make progress. But… only if you want to.”

Donatello listened to Raph begin to spout off what he should be eating rather than his poor excuse for a diet lately. It was true that he needed to gain some weight, his muscle building regimen had taken a back seat in his priorities, really he only did the bare minimum of what was required of him as far as it was concerned. Donatello was not weak though, even malnourished as he was these days he could still manage to lift the engine out of the van on his own and he was still a deadly warrior. But it was true that at this point he was the weakest of his brothers, much more equipped to 'attack digitally’, as Raphael had put it earlier.

A brief spell of guilt had washed over him, but he was quickly drawn out of it by Raph’s addendum. “It’s okay Raphie. I know are trying to look out for my best interests.” With a strained chuckle he added, “ _Someone_ has got to.”

The tension tightening Raphael’s massive shoulders relaxes when Don lets him off the hook. His smile widens briefly at the old childhood nickname which nobody uses anymore. Mind you, it’s entirely his own fault… Raph went through a snarling, preadolescent, “ _don’t-call-me-Raphie_ ” phase.

One finger nudges at the ice pack Don is holding in place, trying to adjust it to a different spot. His wrist is getting pretty cold. Honestly, Raph feels just about done holding hands with Donatello by this point, even if it IS for medical reasons, and playfully suggests, “You, uh… y'wanna go to your lab and play Sudoku with me?”

Donatello laughed briefly at the question and complied with moving the ice pack off of Raph’s wrist, conceding to simply hand over the little plastic square, he was confident in Raph’s ability to manage this part of recovery on his own.

The genius gave his brother a small nod and stood from his place on the couch, staggering a bit as a static feeling ran through his leg from being crossed for so long. The feeling disappeared within just a few seconds and he turned to face the red clad shinobi, bringing one hand and very lightly and playfully flicking his forehead with a single finger, “Sure, but Raph, don’t walk away from me again when I am trying to do my medical brew-ha-ha. It’s about the only thing I am useful for these days, okay? Let me have this one thing.”

At the finger-flick, and especially at the words Don just said, Raph’s mouth curls at one side faintly. “That’s your head talking smack, man. You’re crazy if you think that’s all you do for us. Anyway, you used to tell me that you hated being our doctor. You said you just wanted to build shit.” He tilts Don a look to allow, “Granted, we were like… twelve, but…”

Raphael shakes his head and decides to cut to the chase. “All the crazy shit you build us, all the vehicles, and our security system is pimp these days. We ain’t had to move the lair in ages. Let me have this one thing… You’re an engineer, Donnie! On top'a like a dozen other fucking things!” If you didn’t know him better, it would be easy to think he had grown irritated by the scowls and the annoyed way he declares, “You’re the most useful guy I know, okay?”

But he’s not annoyed. That’s just how it usually comes out when wants to compliment people.

As Raphael spoke Don casually glanced around them, evidence of his handiwork glimmered from every corner of the room, various ways that he had tried to make their existence more comfortable, safe and manageable. It was true, he did much more for the family than he gave himself credit for. He was their engineer, tech support, medic, mechanic, tactic adviser and a thousand other little jobs that he could not even list off the top of his head. If something went wrong that was not directly related to their physical training, it was, more often than not, Don that his brothers would seek out for advice or help.

_Being a genius was a blessing and a curse._

However, the reminder did make his chest swell with pride for the span of a moment and brought a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He quietly mumbled an acknowledgement thanks before jerking his head slightly to the side, indicating that it was time to go. After the evening that he had, a friendly “game of Sudoku” sounded like a necessity.

“Been a hell of a day, am I right?” Raph grumbles, holding the ice pack to his wrist and trailing after Donatello dutifully. “Suppose I oughta shut the fuck up before aliens attack, or some wacky new threat comes outta nowhere, and shows us that life can always get more interesting.”

As Donatello walked towards his personal fortress of solitude he heard Raph grumbling behind him, his musings brought an honest chuckle to his lips and as he slid open the heavy metal door leading to his lab he quipped back, “I think that we have had it easy, actually. Mikey is the one that has really had a Hell of a day.” As he stepped aside, gesturing for Raph to come in he playfully added, “And an alien attack is not likely, that is more of a _Tuesday_ activity.”

“Oh, right! My bad. Today’s forecast is Doomsday Devices with a chance of Militant Racism.” Raphael has proven himself the least annoying lab invader for a while now. He no longer feels the need to bully his brothers or break their things without a good reason. He touches nothing, snoops into nothing, and doesn’t ask a ton of annoying questions.

The hothead takes up a lean against a cleared stretch of counter space. He sets down the ice pack and uses his uninjured hand to pull both his shell cell and a yellow plastic lighter out of a small leather holster on his belt. “Leo says at least Mike won’t be trying to deal with everything on his own anymore. But he didn’t say what that means. You don’t think… he wouldn’t mess around with time travel, would he? And send Mike back to when Master Splinter…” He trails off uncomfortably. It too soon, too destabilizing to talk about. “If anyone needs to talk with dad right now, it’s Mike. But I’m not sure if Leo can do that. I kinda hope not, anyway.”

Raphael’s gives his phone a dark look as he fumbles with trying to get it open with his non-dominant hand.

Donatello locked the door with the heavy metal bar that slid into place about chest high on the thick door and turned on his heel to cross the room and join Raph. He casually dropped into his favorite chair, a treasure that he had pilfered from an abandoned office building when he was sixteen, and pulled open the top drawer of his desk. The terrapin fumbled for just a moment until the false bottom of the drawer gave way, revealing his hidden stash, a nearly empty dark green pack of smokes, purple bic lighter and a small sketch pad.

The sketch pad he kept in the drawer, but otherwise emptied it if it’s contents.

As he placed one of the smokes in his mouth he noticed Raph’s difficulty with the cell phone in his hand. He quickly lit his smoke then reached up and flipped open the phone in his brother’s grip.

“I do not think that he would be messing with time on this one, certainly not within our own timeline. I don’t think the Tribunal would want to risk Mikey altering the future with his actions, especially if he is on trial for something. I believe they would want him to atone for whatever he did, not stop it from happening.” With a small sigh he added, “We should probably work on your dexterity with that hand while we are training.”

Raphael leaves the shell cell lying open on the counter and proceeds to operate it with a left-handed, single stabbing finger. In this slow method which has got to be painful for someone as proficient as Don to watch, Raph pulls up his note-taking app and starts adding Don’s items to his pre-existing shopping list.

In their teens, the hothead used to gripe and moan any time he was expected to use any of Don’s technology that wasn’t a weapon or a vehicle. At age twenty-four, phones no longer count as mysterious, new-fangled devices. Raphael’s overall confidence with mobile tech went up significantly once Don finally figured out and addressed the real issue: Raphael did not have the fine motor skills to work the rather tiny buttons on the soft interface. Once the UI design had been overhauled with his gigantic hands and slightly nerve-damaged fingers in mind, Raph started to discover lots of new ways that his phone was useful.

The red-masked turtle had been following along with Donatello’s theories about time traveling Tribunal ninjas and nodding in vague agreement, but the last thing Don said throws him. He looks up in surprise, then down at his phone. Funny, he’d just been thinking that it wasn’t slowing him down too bad. But it was, apparently, or Don wouldn’t have suddenly skipped onto the topic of physical therapy.

Raphael frowns and uncertainly sticks up for himself, “It’ll be fine. I bet I won’t gotta favor it so bad as this for more than a few days tops, keep it, uh-” His eyes lower with a weight of sudden shyness, because it takes half a second before the correct word will come to him: “—immobilized. Lemme see those weird Indian smokes.” He starts to extend his bandaged hand, then aborts and uses his left to reach for them. “Just taking a picture of the pack. Already spent an hour putting ‘yogurt’ and ‘ramen’ on there… American Spirit Menthol, yeah – nobody’s got time for me to write all that.”

Donatello had leaned back in his chair, casually drawing deeply from his lit smoke as he watched Raph move at a snail’s pace to add just the few small items onto his list. It truly was horrific to watch.

The tech that he designed was graceful and practically flawless in execution. His interfaces were truly user friendly and precise. He was positive that none of his brother’s understood the thought and work that he had put into them.

He obediently handed over the nearly empty pack of cigarettes, but also pulled out his own shell cell, bringing up the same note taking application. The genius turned the phone to show Raph the back of it, pressing down on the lowest scute of the shell designed case. A small beep came from the speaker and Don said in a clear voice, “American Spirit Menthol”.

He gently set his phone down next to his brother’s, placing the tops of the devices together, one finger rested on the tiny yellow notepad which now bore the words ‘American Spirit Menthol’. A single swipe towards Raph’s phone and a brief loading symbol later, the three little words joined the rest of Raph’s grocery list. Donatello flashed a playful grin, “Nobody got time for that.”

An incredulous, disbelieving sneer curls just the corner of Raphael’s mouth at first, but it stretches and unfurl until his grin is splitting his broad-featured face. The cigarettes are tossed back down and his left hand snatches back the phone to scrutinize these words which have appeared at the end of his list. His gaze slides to Don’s phone, then back to his own. He holds down the button embedded in the shell, lifts the device to his mouth, and drawls, “Ain’t this some fucking wizardry…”

He glances down at his shopping list, then smirks up at Don and sets the phone back on the counter. His phone stabbing finger leaves a smudge as it crosses the screen, but reproduces Don’s gesture well enough to activate the document sync feature. Instead of a loading indicator, Raphael’s screen prompts him with a message:  
————————————  
**SCID IN RANGE: Donatello**  
 **SHARE FILE: ‘Untitled67.txt’ now?**  
 **—–| YES |———-| NO |—–**

Raph peers at the box. His notes have titles? Raph didn’t know they continued to exist after he closed them. He marvels that there are apparently sixty-six more of his notes still floating around in there somewhere. It’s going to be the most random assortment, too: lists and personal reminders, addresses and phone numbers, moving song lyrics, short notes relating to crime scenes and personal investigations. Lastly, and most embarrassingly, there are the strings of haunting urban descriptions and blunt, un-pretty stream-of-conscience words that are his formless, rough-hewn style of poetry.

It’s something Splinter encouraged him to keep doing from a very young age. Young Raph had the audacity to insist upon a vow of silence, a request which Splinter had taken very seriously. He came up with a whole sacred, ancient Ninja Vow of Silence Everlasting, complete with fancy stuff with candles, and some impressive colored goop dabbed onto his head. It might have been hokey play-acting in hind-sight, but ultimately their sensei had kept his word took the knowledge to his grave.

Raph gives his head a shake to clear it. These memories of father can steal upon him without warning. Refocusing on the shell cell, Raph prods the ‘yes’ button and suggests truthfully, “Text-to-speech still got some issues. Pretty funny issues, actually.” He jerks his chin to indicate Don’s phone, which now displays an updated version of Untitled67.txt which now concludes:

**Yogurt**   
**Ramen**   
**American spirit menthol**   
**intestine fucking with surgery**

There’s a long, water-resistant hidden pocket which is accessible from a flap on the inside of his wide leather belt. This hidden space is used to store money, his hand-written notes, smoke pellets or small valuables – and more often than not the past few months, a couple battered Marlboro reds.

Raphael sticks the cigarette in his mouth, bows his head, and prays he’ll be able to light it left-handed without looking like a moron.  
  
Donatello wore a wide grin as Raph snatched up the phone with a bewildered excitement. Very few things could please the young genius the way that someone else enjoying his tech did, so seeing the amusement of Raphael’s face as he discovered the new feature was a reward in and of itself.

Donatello was being rather observant of Raph, wanting to soak in the reaction to his programming, had he not been he may have missed the sudden and very brief dullness that crossed Raph’s features. The subtle downward look and tense of his shoulders. As quickly as it has come, it had passed. Donatello could certainly understand sudden shifts of mood, and chose not to press Raph about the look, knowing full well that if it was something that needed to be said aloud, Raphael would tell him about it eventually.

Within just a few moments the new file had been transferred back to him and he had scooped his phone back into his hand, quickly swiping a finger across the screen to open the applications. Russet eyes scanned the brief list, just as his brother had confirmed that there were issues. A hearty laugh left his lips at the auto-correct blunder.

The purple clad shinobi took one more drag off his smoke before setting it in a cleaned out Petri dish on his desk and standing so that he could reach Raph’s screen. “Here… if you press down on the word, _like so_ ….. okay, see this menu? It has all the words that it thought you might have meant. If you select the right one the phone will remember that and you can eventually train it to your accent.”

Raph gets the lighter to cooperate on the second flick. Not too bad. The hothead takes hit and billows smoke as he protests, “Me? I don’t gotta accent! Maybe you the one whose gotta fuckin’ accent, ya lousy tourist, y'evva think about that?” Right now he’s speaking with a thicker one than anyone has heard him use in years – the one which Don once derisively referred to as his ‘old man voice’. A fair description, truth be told. Raph had been trying too hard in those days to seem like a hardened tough guy, way too mature and cool for any of them.

Deep down, he always knew it was impossible trying to out-mature Donatello. Throughout the childhood battles over who was older than who, Donatello was the only one who did not care at all, easily conceding fraternal seniority not just to Raph, but even Mikey initially. Don had looked up from the book he was reading to announce that HE would be the youngest, with a bored eye-roll that made it clear he thought the whole debate was stupid. Mike had quickly changed his mind at that point, deciding that if he had to be stuck near the bottom of the pecking order, then it was more special to be the youngest.

Thus it had been their mutually agreed upon birth order ever since, but Raph never forgot Donnie’s cool and disaffected attitude that day. He would always harbor a tiny seed of doubt after that as to which of them was truly the older brother. It’s only very recently that Don started allowing him to feel like one.

Raph parks the smoke between his lips, tucks the lighter away, picks his phone back up, and makes an effort to train it with the steps Don just suggested. Funny as it was, he really does prefer that his phone does not make him sound like a kinky and demented surgeon in the middle of a mission.

He’s pleased that “wizardry” is listed as a suggestion, but has to manually punch in the correction for the first part. “Geez… it’s like the guy who programmed this thing don’t believe 'ain’t’ is a real word!” he remarks blandly around the filter, though the merry twinkle in his eyes undercuts his grumbling. “Like maybe he thinks people in this town say a word like WIZARDRY more often than AIN’T in a normal fuckin’ conversation.”

When Raphael had taken up the chore of beginning to input the correct phrases into his phone Donatello smiled happily. He honestly hoped that the interface would make it much easier for Raph to use and enjoy the phone that he had spent countless hours designing.

Well, not countless. Donatello had a nasty habit of keeping logs of data, to a sometimes unhealthy and compulsive point. He knew for a fact that he had logged two hundred thirty four hours on the programming for the Shell Cells since he originally created the devices as a teen. In his opinion, every minute had been well spent.

He plucked his own cigarette back out of the glass dish it had been smoldering in and placed it instead between his lips. Leaning over his desk he flicked the light switch on the wall, starting up the powerful vent overhead to clear the room of the haze it had begun to accumulate, sitting back in his chair just in time for Raph’s over dramatic complaints.

“Raph… 'Ain’t’ is not a word. And truthfully, everyone has an accent, you just abuse the privilege.”

“Maybe I do,” Raph agrees with a shrug, unconcerned with these allegations. Still holding the cigarette in his mouth but not really smoking it for the moment, his focus is mostly on the phone. He pulls up a web browser, squints to make sure the cursor is in the URL place up top, which it is. He presses the button on the back and says with clearer enunciation, “Dictionary dot com.”

He releases the button and looks down at the screen of his phone. Raphael’s brow ridge cocks and he gives Donatello a congratulatory side-nod, because the URL not only appears correctly but recognizes the valid site and displays it without any further hassle on his part. He stabs the screen a few times, eventually getting his cursor in the very tiny field on this website.

During this time, a chunk of ash drops off Raph’s smoke. It hits his plastron, which is adequate armor so that he doesn’t feel or notice it, and lands on the floor. How meticulous _is_ Don about not getting caught? Because that landed on the floor.

Raphael pushes the speech-to-text button again and says, “Ain’t.” The word appears correctly this time. He sets the phone on the span of desk between them for Don to see, and takes a hit before wondering, “Okay, Smart Guy… How much you wanna bet?”

Donatello had made himself comfortable, kicking his feet up onto the desk as he watched Raph mess around with the newfound functions on his phone, content to lean back and enjoy the cigarette that he had most certainly needed after today’s events. It had been such a hectic twenty four hours that Donatello had not had the opportunity to sneak away for even a single cigarette, so as he puffed on the small carcinogenic cylinder he began to feel a swimming sensation in his head evidence that the nicotine had crept into his system.

Russet eyes follow the progression of the small ash that had fallen from the end of Raphael’s cigarette and landed on his meticulously clean lab floor. Without a second thought the genius terrapin sat forward and pulled a container of Clorox wipes toward him from their usual position near his monitor. He used one of the chemical smelling wipes to quickly rid his floor of the evidence of Raph’s blunder, tossing the wipe into the hazardous waste bin near his desk.

He looked up as Raph slid the phone between them and the game that his brother was playing became evident to him. Donatello cocked one brow and retorted in an almost insulted tone. “Ain’t is going to be on that site. It is used commonly enough that there will be a definition for it. There is likely even a definition for it in Webster’s due to the wide use of it.”

He let out a small sigh and added, “It would be a contraction for several phrases. ‘Am not’, ‘is not’, ‘are not’ among them. But Raph… It is a crass and vulgar mutilation of the English language.”

He pushed the phone back towards Raph with a single finger and looked up to his brother with an amused grin. “So, no, I will not bet that it is not on there. But _for the love of Darwin’s Finches._.. It really shouldn’t be.”

“Pshh… your _face_ is a crass and vulgar mutilation,” Raph jokes under his breath. Don is never any fun to wager with. He always knows in advance when he is guaranteed to lose.

Raphael does feel a little sheepish about dropping ash on the floor, but at least Don isn’t griping about that too. He’s more used to smoking out in the sewer tunnels or on rooftops where it doesn’t matter where the ash falls. The idea of paying attention and ashing in certain designated places is foreign to him. He leaves the phone where it is and gets up, moving to sit on the edge of Don’s desk, so that the Petri dish is between them.

The muscular turtle considers his smoke for a second, eyes the dark green box on Don’s desk, and absently muses, “Hot and cold… cowboys and Indians. Heh.” His grin is both amused and thoughtful. What he’s thinking during his next pull is that they are SO very different. Even their preference of cigarettes seem to reflect this.

He feels self-conscious as he very carefully and purposefully knocks off the next column of ash into the Petri dish. _Ta-da_ , he thinks.  
  
Raph looks over at Don abruptly and breaks into a bigger grin as he wonders, “Did you even quit, way back when? I have to know.”  
  
Donatello chuckled lightly at Raph’s rebuttal. He was certain that his hot headed brother could have come up with a much better insult if he had truly wanted to, but the jab was still funny, for what it was worth.

The genius took another long pull from his smoke, blowing a few thick smoke rings as he exhaled. He was distracted from his momentary game by the mutter that had come from his red-banded brother. At first he was confused, but, being a genius had it’s perks.  
A quick glance around them brought several things to his attention, among them, their brands of cigarettes. A wry grin pulled at his beak as he noted the polar opposites in the habit that had, in it’s own way, served to bring them far closer together. He put his cigarette out in the dish that Raph had just ashed into and pulled out a second smoke, slowly dwindling away the small number in the nearly pristine looking pack.

As he lit it he looked up to Raph, shaking his head lightly at the question. After a deep exhale he answered, “ _No_. I never quit. I cut back for awhile, but not much. Mostly I just got better at hiding what I was up to from everyone. Not that I really needed to. No one has ever really bothered to check up on me before now, so it has never been all that difficult to get away with all manner of stuff like this.”  
  
“Wow,” Raph muses, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “Those Tribunal dudes would probably give you some kinda _ninjutsu_ award for that crazy display of long-term subterfuge – in a house full of ninja, no less! I mean…” he shrugs casually, “I don’t expect _Leo would_ pat you on the back, but all the rest of em would probably.”

The acrid taste filter hits his tongue the next time Raph hits his smoke. He stamps out the butt next to Don’s but does not immediately light another. He’s only got the one left, after all.

“I really did quit,” Raph admits quietly. “Sorry, I’ll–” He hesitates, then finishes what he had started to say with a flinch. “I’ll probably wanna quit again, when Leo and Mike come home. Or… maybe they can just deal with it, I dunno.” He busies his hands with applying the ice pack, focusing his eyes downward as he admits, “Forgot how much I liked it.”

Donatello chuckled at Raph’s quip. It was true that in a house full of shinobi, regardless of how involved they were with other things, it was hard to keep a secret. Ever vigilant and observant. There were plenty of times that Donatello was absolutely convinced that he had been caught red handed at many things that he should not have been doing, only to slip away at the last moment before he was discovered.

When Raph said that he may want to quit when Mikey and Leo returned back from their dealings with the tribunal Don gave him a brief nod. “I would not figure you for someone that wants to smoke forever. And to tell you honestly, it freaks me out a little bit every time I see you smoking.” He glanced down at the smoke in his hands and absently watched the smoke twirl off of it’s end, his mind momentarily wandering back to that other world and his hot-headed and chain smoking brother.

“I probably won’t quit. Though it will be lonely going back to not having a smoking buddy to chat with while I do it.”

“Yeah, that’s… yeah.” Raphael bobs his head without looking up, finding himself unable to voice his thoughts completely. But that’s the thing Raph likes about it, more than anything: this camaraderie he feels with Don. When they were kids Don was experimental about anything and everything, while Raphael was obsessed with figuring out what it meant to be cool. Their reasons were different, but for awhile it was a secret shared between them. It brought them closer then, and it’s hard not to feel that it’s bringing them closer now.

“But it won’t be for a while, all right? No point in being perfect when we’re benched. Leo said our job is to lay low and relax, so let’s fucking relax. And long-term – honestly, we’re grown enough ta make our own stupid choices, don’t ya think?”

Donatello took a few more drags off of his smoke before putting it out about halfway along it’s length. With a chuckle he gives a brief nod to his brother, “I suppose that we are. Though I think that it is likely a very good thing that neither of us were left completely on our own.”  
  
He quickly grabs another Clorox wipe which he cleans out the Petri dish with, drying it off with a white tissue. He then places the half smoked cigarette in the little glass dish, placing it and the rest of his things back into the top drawer of his desk, hidden securely beneath the false bottom of his drawer. His next actions involved an ungodly amount of hand sanitizer which was applied rigorously to his hands and forearms as though he were scrubbing in to surgery.

Though, in all honesty it was the amount that he used for pretty much anything, not just for covering the smell of smoke. There were few things that Donatello ran out of faster than hand sanitizer. Really the only thing that could even come close to comparing was how quickly his stores of Folgers disappeared. Speaking of…

“I had just made a pot of coffee about an hour ago. You want?”

“Wait,” Raphael says in a choked voice. _Shit. Don’t fuck this up_. The hand that isn’t bandaged flexes and unflexes as he rises off the desk and into a standing position. He tucks his chin closer to his collarbone and looks at Donatello uncertainly. “You’ve said a couple things just now, that – I’m still trying ta figure out.”

It would be so much easier to just let it go, write it off, go get some coffee. Coffee sounds delicious, by the way.

But instead his eyes drop to the floor, intently processing. “Like – okay. It’s good not to leave you on your own? I mean, you lumped me in there but – I got eight months in total fucking solitude and a real pretty necklace says otherwise. But you, Donnie –” He gestures sharply to indicate the lab around them, which Don even _calls_ his ‘Fortress of Solitude’. “ _You_ are left on your own, all the god damn time! You demand it, man. Always have. And it’s fine, I mean - we’re all used to it. But lately, I dunno.” His pale grey green eyes seek out his brother’s russet ones and lock there, imploring. “Lately, the way you phrase things. I feel like maybe you are asking for my help. But you don’t wanna come right out and say so. You ask real subtle, and – I gotta tell you, I’m the worst for that. I don’t always pick up on subtle.”

His scarred off-hand lifts to grip Don’s arm. “Any time you need my help, all ya gotta do is let me know. Y’know that, right?”

Donatello had meant to rise from his seat, make his way to the kitchen for some coffee, but when Raph stood in front of him, looking down at him with confusion and concern in his eyes, Don felt as though he had been paralyzed where he sat. The genius began to chew on his bottom lip absently, glancing around the room to which Raph motioned with his uninjured hand.

His laboratory was pristine. Cold. Sterile. Hours upon hours of solitude were spent maintaining the meticulous order that dominated the room, ensuring that nothing was out of place. It was true that he had demanded solitude here. The very walls of this room held his darkest secrets, cleverly disguised beneath the highly polished chrome and plethora of white labels.

Without being truly aware of his actions the purple-banded terrapin slowly pulled his arms in towards him, pressing his forearms against his plastron protectively. He had only just looked back at his brother when Raph had caught him with that piercing stare and told him that his subtlety was not going to work, that it would get lost in translation.

He felt Raphael grip his arm, giving him a friendly and reassuring squeeze. At the touch Don had to blink away the hot tears that stung his eyes, threatening to give away far more of his vulnerability than he wanted. When they had been forced into submission Donatello nodded at Raph, quietly mumbling, “Thanks, bro…” Don shifted his eyes away from his brother and added, in what he hoped came off as his typical casual and stoic tone, “I had merely meant it as small talk, Raph. I mean, we both know that I have been having issues but I have been working on it.”

The genius stood from his chair and forced himself to look back at his the red clad shinobi, “I know you are here for me. It means a great deal to not be alone in this.” He brought a hand up and rubbed his neck as he sheepishly added, “I am not good at asking for help. But I am working on that too.”

Raphael might not have the deductive reasoning abilities of Sherlock Holmes, or Donatello himself for that matter. But one thing he’s learned over the years is to trust his instincts – especially when they are sounding an alarm. So when Don tells him that he was making small talk, insists he was referring to the same issues they have been working on for months, Raph gives him a squinting, searching look. He inhales deeply, and on a subconscious level he is sorting through the dissonance of airborne chemicals, that spike of anxiety from Don which does not quite jive with his carefully composed words.

When Don forces himself to meet that penetrating gray-green gaze, it probably shows on his face. Raphael doesn’t believe him.

But as his brother goes on to speak more heartfelt words, the creases in his mask deepen at the edges of his eyes and his intensity dials back considerably. It looks as though kindness will win out over dogged aggression tonight. He looks away and grunts, almost a chuckle, “Yeah? Don’t sweat it. Pretty sure that runs in the family.”

Raphael shakes his head ruefully and can’t help blurting, “But I swear ta God, Don, if I find out you’ve been in here smoking crack or something, I’m gonna fucking…” He makes a fist with his uninjured hand and shakes it, as if to imply some unspoken physical threat that would be more typical from him. But the circular gesture slows, his lips press together, and he looks up at his brother with those serious eyes. Knocking once on Don’s plastron, very gently, he promises, “… _help_.”

The _chūnin_ holds Don’s gaze meaningfully for another moment before turning away, busying himself with applying a squirt of hand sanitizer. His brow wrinkles a bit, off put by the harsh chemical smell. But better that than potentially getting into a fight with their overwrought leader just because he reeks of cigarette smoke.

“Let’s go get that coffee,” he suggests. But thinking of Leo just now reminded Raph of something else worth mentioning. “But, just a heads up. He’s, uh – he’s _wearing_ it. At least, he was when I last saw him.”

He’s pretty sure Don will know exactly what he means.

The genius shinobi swallowed thickly when he saw the look of disbelief in Raphael's eyes. The red-banded turtle had learned to read him very well, far better than he was comfortable with at times, in fact. He felt a huge relief when his brother's gaze softened and he had appeared to drop it for a moment. Raph's quip brought a small chuckle to Don's lips, though it was slightly strained. But then again, nearly everything that Donatello did these days was at least slightly strained.

When his brother lifted his fist the younger turtle instantly flinched, a knee jerk reaction from so many years of living amongst his brothers mingled with the fact that he was constantly on edge, nearly always just a breath away from a panic attack. He did not ever truly believe that Raph was about to hit him though. It had been years since the hot-headed turtle had hit him outside of sparing or without due cause.

While Raph's message was full of compassion, love and a true desire to help, it caused a feeling of guilt to stir within his gut. Over the years Donatello had found himself turning to increasingly extreme forms of self soothing. Experimentation with drugs seemed to him to be the least worrisome of the list. The small hit to his plastron and Raph's kindness only served to increase his anxiety and guilt.

As Raphael turned from him, applying a small squirt of hand sanitizer, Donatello subconsciously began running his hand along his forearm, fingers lightly toying with the meticulously applied wrappings that went from wrist to elbow. His russet eyes dropped to the floor between his brother and himself until Raph's voice calls his attention upward once again. He nods in agreement about getting coffee, desperate to have something to change the subject that the pair had begun to speak about.

His eyes widened as his companion let it be known that Leo was wearing it. _Fuck_. Donatello hated that fucking trenchcoat. Ever since Leonardo had come back from one of his constitutionals wearing the damn thing he never seemed to take it off. But whenever Don saw him... now blind and wearing that fucking coat... it almost instantly sent him into a state of panic.

But what the fuck was he supposed to say to him without sounding like a _crazy person_?

He nodded his head solemnly, taking a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for the sight that very well may meet his eyes. At least he had some warning this time.

_Well, that could have gone better. But it also could have gone worse._

That was the most awful, outrageous problem Raphael had been able to dream up off the top of his head. A laugh, a smirk, an outright denial – all of these would have been vastly preferable to the brief, partial smile that his worst case scenario receives. It leaves Raph with the feeling that, once again, he did not quite hit the nail on the head. But at the same time, he knows that his mistrust and trepidation are warranted.

Raphael gets that he is more adept than anyone else in the family at reading Donatello these days – though he is still a long way from completely understanding his enigmatic and troubled brother. But unlike Leo any time he thinks he is onto something, Raph knows when it is time to put his own concerns aside and back the fuck off.

Raphael leads the way out onto the balcony and down the stairs, all the while scanning the common area warily for Leonardo. An eerie quiet permeates the lair – the same quiet they have endured for months. The same quiet they always seem to endure when one of the team is conspicuously absent. Mikey was able to dispel it the minute he stepped through the door. The whole lair had erupted into immediate chaos.

He looks around and wishes once again that they could have slowed down, forgot the demands of the damned Ninja Tribunal, and simply enjoyed the return of their noisy, delinquent little brother – however briefly. The place seems quieter than ever now that he’s gone.

Donatello follows Raphael through the chilling silence of the lair. No hint of life apart from themselves makes itself known as the two shinobi cross the familiar path into the small kitchen of their subterranean home. With each passing moment Donatello is mentally preparing himself for the appearance of his big brother who had now officially become an embodiment of Donatello’s greatest nightmares. A reminder that the future which he so feared was only ever a mistake away from coming to fruition.

But as luck would have it, the pair of them were able to slip quietly through the lair without any interruption. He did not need it to make his way to the cupboard which housed his favorite coffee mug, turning on the fluorescent lighting overhead was little more than a formality. A habit that he had developed long ago to try to create some semblance of a normal life for he and his brothers, but the truth was, it had been years since any of them needed lighting such as this to function.

Before he was able to get to the cupboards he saw Leonardo’s fancy scrawl across the bottom of a piece of parchment which was set on the top of the coffee pot. Well… At least Leo knew that they would find it.

He plucked the paper off of the pot and handed it to Raph to read as he busied himself with gathering mugs and coffee creamer. When he returned to his position, leaning against the counter and pouring a healthy amount of the thick black liquid into his cup he raised a brow at Raphael, “ _So_?”

Upon entering the kitchen, Raphael moved directly to a cabinet where vitamins and over-the-counter meds are stored. He leaves the ice pack on the counter and impatiently shoves band-aids and bottles aside until he comes up with a container of generic ibuprofen. He’s trying to get it open one-handed as he makes his way back over to the coffee pot, grumbling under his breath at childproof cap.

Raph is so intent on this, he doesn’t notice the note until Donatello is holding it out for him to take. He blinks in surprise and abruptly gives up on the bottle of pills, setting them back down in favor of accepting the mysterious note.

He snaps it open and begins to read. The turtle’s blunt features settle into a thoughtful frown and his grey-green eyes flick back and forth over the words carefully inscribed on Leonardo’s high-quality, cream-colored stationery. Raph has only known their big brother to use this fancy paper on special occasions.

Donatello’s prompting earns him an annoyed glance. He’s still not finished with it yet, only about two-thirds of the way through the letter and still struggling to absorb what he’s already read. “Keep yer purple panties on, will ya?” he snaps. “If you ain’t ever noticed, Leo’s pretty fucking verbose.” _Anyway, if Donatello wanted speed reading he could’ve dealt with the letter himself._

He spends another minute or two buried in the letter and wearing a deepening, unhappy scowl.

“So, it says Mike’s in big trouble, and Leo’s gotta go fix it. _Alone_.” Something in his tone suffixes that with an unspoken _like always_. “It says I’m in charge, so don’t fuck it up. Says we should lay low and focus on recuperation. And by ‘we’, he means ‘Raph’, and the rest he means “you are fucking benched and don’t forget it’. Then he says ‘we’ — though I’m pretty sure he means ‘you’ – should relax, get plenty of rest, and try to keep things in perspective. By which he probably means, ‘please stop bein’ crazy, Donnie.”

His lips twist wryly and his eyes lift off the page to look head-on at Donatello for a beat. Then he shrugs and continues, “Watch out for each other, try not to die while he’s gone. Don’t talk to strangers, look both ways before crossing the street, blah, blah, blah… It’s all a bunch’a super obvious shit we already know, basically. ‘Cept for this whole big part at the end, where he just goes on and on about my pretty princess necklace. Apparently it also works like some kinda magic walkie-talkie, and it’s the only way to reach Leo if we wanna have a chat. Then it tells me to lay low again. No fighting, eat yer veggies, and seriously, don’t die. Love and kisses, Leonardo.”

Raphael maturely restrains his desire to crush the letter up in his fist. He half turns instead and tosses it down on the counter next to the coffee pot. “Can’t even say goodbye! He just leaves a stupid letter and slips out the back door. At least we gotta fucking group hug and a lecture last time—”

He stops abruptly and looks aside, brow furrowing. “No. I ain’t doin’ that,” he decides, huffing a determined breath. “I won’t start comparing this to when he left before. It ain’t the same at all. This situation is completely different!”

Raphael keeps giving the shitty linoleum a hard stare. He can’t bring himself to look at Don as he says quietly, “Ain’t gonna be anything like that other time, I… I promise.”

Donatello had fixed his eyes on the red banded shinobi as he asked for the details within the scroll that had been left for them. He should have figured that it would take a bit to read through Leonardo’s note, so he merely chuckled at the irritated look which he had gained from his older brother. The genius settled instead to lean casually against the counter top, drinking deeply from the mug of scalding coffee in his hands.

He was so used to the sensation of coffee that was far too hot that it did not even cause the slightest flinch as he drained the entire cup. He had poured his second cup and was drinking it far more slowly when Raphael finally began to speak about the contents of the letter. While his eyes were focused on the black liquid and steam in his hands his focus was entirely on the translation which Raph was providing to him.  
  
He had known that Mikey was in some sort of trouble. That much had been made clear prior to this new information. Nor was it a surprise that Leo would feel the need to play the role of the valiant White Knight, charging in on a fiery steed to rescue Michelangelo from the wrath of the Tribunal. His insistent need to be the hero was shining through again.

The purple clad turtle had lifted his cup to his lips when Raphael had gone on to say; ‘ _please stop bein’ crazy, Donnie_.’

His logical mind knew that Raphael had meant it to be a lighthearted satire-esk explanation of what was sure to be a wordy and overbearing gush of what was meant to be construed as affection from their leader. He was positive that it was meant in jest.

_But half of truth is often said in jest._

He lowered his mug without having actually taken a drink from it, setting the half empty cup back on the counter, not to be touched again. Suddenly he had found himself to not be all that thirsty.

Playing off the sting as well as he could he shrugged at the comparison to when Leo had gone on his extended camping trip to South America, having left the genius in charge of the family, a role which he failed at quite miserably. He folded his arms across his plastron and let out a brief sigh.

“Well, this time you and I are seeing eye to eye a bit better, so that should be an improvement. And at least I did not have to look at that fucking coat before he left.”

The red-masked turtle makes a rough sound with a sharp exhale, hitting the back of his throat to huff a very short laugh, more incredulous than joyful. “The coat. The coat? Are you serious? Leo’s leaving for half a year, and you’re… Okay, listen. How do I put this?”

He looks over at Don. One side of his mouth peels back to reveal a broad row of upper teeth and he tucks his chin in preemptive apology, because there’s just no sugar coating this: “Ya gotta get over the coat, Don. Because I’m tellin’ ya…” Raph’s chuckle is almost silent, mostly revealing itself in the way that it makes his shoulders and collar bones hitch. He widens his eyes at Don and bobs his head in time with his next words to emphasize, “Leo _loves_ that fucking coat, man. I don’t know what it is. Been giving him so much random crap about it, too. Told him it makes his ass look fat. Said he looks like some kinda hipster, and maybe he oughta put on eyeliner and some skinny jeans to complete the look. I made BDSM jokes. I was like, “Yo, the Matrix called. Said they need you back, man,” and then I started calling him Neo instead of Leo, for like a week straight after that!

“But nothing I said to him would stick. Just pffff, rolls right off him,” he illustrates this with a sweeping, one-handed gesture before turning back towards the counter and picking up the coffee pot. “I even tried ripping one of the seams out,” he adds, angling his chin to aim the conversation over one shoulder while keeping the majority of his focus on not sloshing coffee everywhere, “Trying to make it look like this thing is a piece of shit. It’s just falling apart, right?”

He sets the coffee pot back onto the cold burner and turns fully towards Don to confesses, “But, truthfully? It was kind of a _bitch_. Like, those were some pretty fucking good seams. And even after all the shit I gave him, he didn’t even confront me about it. Pretty sure he had it patched up the very next day.”

Raphael takes a casual gulp from the mug and immediately spits it back, his whole beak wrinkling, “Aughh. What the fuck, Donnie. That tastes like some cold sludge scraped off an oil spill. How about we do ourselves a favor and add _coffee_ to that shopping list, if this is all we got to pass for it?”

Donatello's jaw dropped slightly as those words fell from Raph's lips.

_How the Hell does he get off telling me to 'get over it'. He fucking knows what I have been through. How dare he tell me to get over it? Isn't it obvious by now that this is not some delusion? Doesn't he think I would get over this shit if I could? It is not like I enjoy being this way!_

Most of what Raphael was saying fell on deaf ears. Don was far too consumed in the toxic train of thought he had gotten wrapped up in. His mind quickly going numb to rational logic and reasoning.

_Fuck. Breathe Donatello. Breathe._

The genius terrapin closed his eyes, keeping his arms folded across across his chest subtly wrapping his hands on his biceps, holding himself as he did the only thing that seemed to be able to pull him out of these frequent downward spirals.

_Hydrogen… Helium… Lithium… Beryllium… Boron… Carbon… Nitrogen… Oxygen… Fluorine… Neon… Sodium…Magnesium… Aluminium … Silicon…Phosphorus… Sulphur… Chlorine…_

He was pulled out of his soothing exercise, his scarlet eyes snapping open when he heard Raph say his name, chastising him for the way he had made the coffee they were now sharing. While the comment was meant as a joke, it was simply the straw that broke him. He quickly turned and grabbed the pot of black liquid off of the heating cradle and dumped the contents before dropping the glass with a loud crack into the sink.

"If you don't like it, you don't have to _fucking drink it_." He had not intended to sound so full of venom but now that he had opened his mouth he could not stem the flow of angry words that poured forth as he gripped the edge of the counter, watching the coffee slowly disappear down the drain. " _Get over it_ . Yeah, I will get right the fuck on that. Silly me to have dwelt on any of this at all, right? It is not like I was _fucking traumatized_ by this experience."

Don let out a laugh, it was strained and nearly manic, "It is not like seeing my brother wearing the coat that _I watched him die in_ should be a hard thing for me to deal with. I will just _get over it_. "

He pushed himself away from the counter, turned on his heel and began marching out of the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, " _Go to Hell_ , Raph!"

His face works in a myriad of emotions - flat shock, twisted offense, furrow-browed frustration. But he has to shove aside all of these knee-jerk reactions, redirect his energy towards something more helpful than soothing himself. What is Raphael supposed to do with this sensitive, secretive, increasingly volatile brother? It's enough to make him sympathize with Leonardo for all the sleepless nights he must have suffered due to Raph's behavior throughout those unpredictable, less than stable years.

"Don! You _hothead_ , you didn't understand a goddamned thing I was tryin' ta... Don! Would'ja come back here?" Hothead -- they still call him that every now and then, but Raphael hasn’t deserved the nickname for several years now. Especially since returning from his own Five-Fold Path, he has become more adept at mastering his anger. He had hoped that the unspoken comparison of Don's behavior to that of his younger, irascible self might be enough to jar the logic back into full operation... nope! Clearly Donatello isn't ready to be reasonable.

Raph's not about to pull the leader card and order him to stop, not so soon after his appointment. That should be a last resort, assuming Don would even heed such a command right now. He has the feeling it would do more harm than good. If their positions were reversed, it sure as hell wouldn't work on him.

 _If their positions were reversed_... that line of thinking might actually be helpful. If their positions were reversed, Raph would need some time alone to cool off before he could listen to reason. But at the same time, he can't seem to forget what Don said earlier, that warning about not leaving him alone. He hasn't forgotten the way it made his instincts skitter like insects over his skin.

So, no cooling off period of solitude is allowed -- not yet. Not if Don's idea of blowing off steam might be something dangerous, like shooting up, or... God, he had better not speculate. Not without proof.

_Except... of course Donatello is way too smart to leave behind any proof! Christ, what a nightmare._

He hurries to close any distance between them, then proceeds to trudge stubbornly after Don. Damn, was he this frustrating for Leonardo to deal with? But that's a stupid question. Raphael immediately supposes that he must have been. How many of those epic fights were actually the bungled result of Leonardo trying to _help_ him, but not knowing the right thing to do or say?

There are plenty of things Raphael would like to say in response to all the angry stuff Don shouted. But he doesn’t trust himself to phrase it right, and he doesn't trust Don to _hear it_ right even if he expressed himself perfectly. Which... is fine. He knows what it feels like, to be so screwed up that your perceptions alter and everything feels like an attack. It fucking sucks. So, let's try this instead: Raphael won't do or say anything. He'll just stay calm, stay close, and wait for a better cue from Don as to how they should proceed.

Donatello stormed out of the kitchen, his normally lithe and nimble footfalls forsaken for, instead, an angry and thudding march across the concrete floor of the lair. He could hear Raph behind him, shouting out to him. The only response that he gave his brother was lifting his hand, his thumb between his two fingers, a gesture that he and his brothers had long since adopted as their form of flipping one another off, not all that different from the gesture that was popularly used in the UK.

_What a fucking hypocrite. Calling me a fucking hothead? I have seen him blow up over the most insignificant things, storm off, even leave the lair! And I am the hothead? Sure. What the fuck ever, Raphael._

_He thinks that just because he got his shiny fucking necklace for being the Tribunal’s lap dog that he is now somehow better than me? Because he managed to not get himself killed for a few fucking months without Leo holding his damn hand?_

_Fuck that._

_And now he gets to be the fucking leader. Bet that makes him real happy. He has been chasing Leo’s coat tails for a fucking decade. Congrats, asshole - You are finally the boss. Everything you ever fucking wanted._

His quickened pace had brought him to the door of his laboratory, he stepped inside and turned, using the position of his body to prevent Raph from following him inside without a fight. Tears stung his crimson eyes as he glared at his brother, snapping angrily, “It’s you who does not fucking understand Raph! You did not see it! It is not fucking real to you. If you fucking believed me you would not tell me to get over it! I fucking trusted you and you are treating me like I am some fucking mental case!”

A few tears had begun to run down Donatello’s cheeks, wetting the cloth of his purple mask as he yelled at his older brother and brought one hand up, wiping his nose much like a child who had skinned their knee. He did not care how undignified or childish he may seem in this moment. He was far too worked up to see that he was likely doing far more harm than good at the moment.

“Just… Just _leave me alone_ , Raph!” The shout was hoarse, his voice cracking as he grabbed ahold of the heavy metal bar that served as the locking mechanism for his door, quickly trying to slide the door shut in his brother’s face.

Raphael doesn't think that this situation -- let's be honest, this unprecedented total fucking _melt-down_ \-- is doing more harm than good. It's not exactly _ideal_ , either. It's not ranking too high on his list of fantastic ways to spend a Friday night in the Big Apple. But the way Raph sees it, these are cracks in the mask.

Donatello's been wearing this particular mask for a while now, keeping it up for the whole family and even for himself probably, for the sake of his dignity. Dignity is important to Don, and always has been. Even when they were just fucking kids, and the rest of them had been reduced to savage little assholes, chasing one another and wrestling in raw sewage like maniacs, Donatello had set himself apart from them. Ever the patient observer in his sanitary bubble of dignity, maturity, sanity, and that ever-present need for personal space.

Oh, yeah... Raph gets it. He gets all of that, and _of course it's going to fuck Don up_ when all of that is being torn away by this... this... fuck, he's not quite ready to start calling this an _illness_. These memories Don has -- more accurately, these _horrific visions of the future_ , which are somehow coming true -- they are doing a fucking number on Don. They are tearing down these pillars which have been at the core of his personality, perhaps essential to his most healthy sense of self.

Raph gets all of that. But there is still more to understand, more that needs to be understood before they can properly combat this. So it's a shame, because he knows that this invasion, this abject denial of personal space, is just another pillar crashing to the ground. It's a shame that Raphael must be the one to have pushed and caused it to break. But he doesn’t see another way.

_Donatello is not allowed to leave them._

He is not allowed to pull away from each and every one of them. It would be the same damned thing, as far as this family and this team is concerned.

_“Just… Just leave me alone , Raph!”_

At which point Raphael's left hand seizes the frame of the door itself, halting it. "No," he growls, meeting Don's tearful face, looking him dead in the eye.

All those faithful repetitions of tricep pull-downs on the dojo's battered weight machine serve him well in this moment. With the slightest bunch of massive muscles in his arm and shoulders, Raphael forces the heavy door open again with a violent and resounding slam.

He doesn't hesitate after that, doesn't give Don that half second he usually requires to decide upon the best of several possible defenses. He comes through the door like a charging bull, shoving his brother further into the lab. With the same hand that caught the door, he shoves the door shut behind him, perhaps for some semblance of privacy. Maybe just the illusion of it. In the heat of this moment, it's easy to forget there is no one left in the lair except the two of them.

No time to react, no plan, no defense. Still he comes at Don, steady and inevitable as an approaching hurricane. Those massive arms seize Don in a fierce and involuntary hug.

"No," he rumbles, deep in his chest. "Not like this. I said it all wrong earlier, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound like what you're dealing with ain't huge. It is huge. You say that I can't understand what you're going through just because I didn't see it. But I see _you_ , Donny-Boy. I see what this fucking curse is _doin_ ' to you. I know you would be the last of us to believe something that sounds crazy. Your say-so is good enough for me, even if I weren't already seeing the proof for myself. You say I still don't understand, but I swear ta God, I'm tryin'. And you must not understand me any better, if you still think that I don't believe after all'a that. So I am gonna _stick around_ , goddamnit." His injured wrist is increasingly painful, but Raphael steadfastly ignores it. He's got a lot of practice at shrugging off non-vital pain. He pulls away to look Don in the face briefly, his eyes bright with determination as well as his own unshed tears. "Whether you like it or not. I am gonna stay until we understand eachother better. Because the way I see it, we got no hope of beating this thing without you. We don't gotta chance unless we face it together."

Donatello's eyes widen in shock as Raphael grabs the door and forces it open wide, effectively ripping the heavy metal bar out of his hands. He did not have time to react as he was pushed back into the darkness of his lab, barely managing to backstep and keep his balance. The reaction was quick and unexpected on his brother's part, not even giving the genius time to yell at the brutish turtle before those goliath arms had wrapped him in a crushing hug.

One of the many downfalls of his failing health was that he did not have anywhere near the strength of any of his brothers. Even now as he tried to push Raph away from him, he could not make the red clad shinobi even budge. He was trapped in the embrace and he could feel the fragile threads of control which he still possessed fraying with each moment and each word.

He was trying to squirm his way out of his brother's grip as his breath became increasingly more ragged and sharp. He nearly became physically violent with Raph but then...

_"I see you Donny-boy. I see what this fuckin curse is doin' to you."_

At those words his resolve crumbled, any fraction of him that had the strength to fight died away, leaving the purple-banded genius sobbing fiercely onto his brother's shoulder, supported almost entirely by Raphael's strength. He knew that it was true that Raph was trying. He had never once questioned whether or not this was a reality for Donatello, whether or not the danger was real. The turtle that held him now had been nothing but supportive of him.

_So why am I constantly trying to push Raph away?_

Was this what had happened to the Donatello of that time line? Did he, too, see the horrific future that lay in wait for his brothers? Did he wake up sobbing after reliving that trauma every time he closed his eyes? Did that turtle alienate himself from his clan and push them away until the darkness that ate away at him consumed him entirely?

He had wondered countless times what had happened to that other Donatello. If he had experienced the same things that he had... perhaps he couldn't cope and had taken the coward's way out. He could not help but think it a possibility. He had, after all, considered it.

When Raph pulled away and looked at him, pale green eyes locking onto his own scarlet orbs as he lovingly said that they would beat this together Donatello's face twisted as he tried to stem the new flood of tears. He knew it was a lost cause, so instead of fighting it the genius tore the thick framed glasses off of his face, letting them clatter to the ground as he buried his face into Raph.

Through heaving sobs Donatello spoke, his voice muffled against Raph's shoulder, "What if we can't beat it? I... I have tried but it all just k-keeps happening... I couldn't save dad. I... I really tried to... but he was... there was nothing I could do... I tried to fix Leo's eyes but they just kept getting worse. No matter what I tried I couldn't fucking s-stop it. And now he even dresses and acts like he did there. He might as well be a f-fucking carbon copy. What kind of c-cruel joke is it that I know this is going to happen and I can't fucking s-stop it!?"

Raphael is prepared for it when his brother starts to shake and fight. This time he is already in position. He just holds on tight, gives him room to breathe but little else. Makes it impossible to do harm to anyone until all the anger and panic has dissolved into clinging, tearful release.

His words during this time are just whispers, mostly meaningless words of comfort. “Shhhhh, I got ya. I got ya...”

It was quick to pass this time. Sometimes the violent stage lasts a lot longer. It still frightens him at times, to deal with Don when he is like this, but he has acclimated enough to step in and handle it.

It’s hard to understand his genius brother through his wracking sobs, but he’s trying. This is always an important time to listen. Don mostly doesn’t want to talk about his visions when he’s calm, studiously avoids any reminder of them. It is now, during the winding down of these panic attacks, that he has gleaned the most useful information about the dangers they face. So he’s listening, but there is nothing new to learn in these words – just the reinforcement of Donatello’s burden of guilt and his growing despair.

Raph’s right arm stays strong around his brother’s thinner frame, keeping him close even though his fingers hang loose and useless from the bandaged wrist. The other hand lifts to cup the back of Don’s skull and rub in a gentle circle as he commands, “You gotta listen this time. You gotta try and _really listen_ to what I’m telling you, okay? I swear this time I’m gonna try to ‘splain it better, but you gotta do your best to keep on trying to hear me, even if it’s hard.

“You know sometimes how you come out and try to explain your projects to us, ask us questions when you are struggling and stuck? You told me once that even if some of our answers are stupid, even if we don’t completely understand what you are even trying to do, it still helps you get unstuck sometimes. Even just hearing us try to figure it out, it lets you look at things from a new perspective. You haven’t ever really asked for my take on all of this. Now, I know this thing is way bigger than any science project, but maybe it would do some good for you to hear it anyway. Maybe... maybe I could help.”

The genius turtle had tried so hard to remain strong in the face of this chaos. He knew that in spite of everything he had experienced he could not give in. Mike had told him that the turning point that lead to the Hamato clan dissolving was Donatello's absence so he could not allow himself give in.

But this was all too much. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He was self-medicating in disastrous and masochistic ways. Everywhere he looked he saw ominous signs of the impending destruction of his family. He did not have the strength to do this anymore. He was too weak.  
  
He had never been the strong one amongst his brothers.

The turtle that held onto him however... Raphael had always been the definition of strength, and not merely because of his muscles. He only hoped that the red clad shinobi had the strength for both of them.

Donatello remained with his face buried into Raph's shoulder, sobbing violently onto the emerald green scales as his brother softly cooed at him, his uninjured hand rubbing comforting circles on the back of his head. He brought his hands up, weakly clinging to the stronger turtle's frame.

He felt his legs beginning to give out from beneath him as Raph spoke, pleading with him to listen to him. Not just hear what he was saying, but really listen. Instead of fighting his failing limbs Donatello sank down to the ground, pulling Raph along with him. He tried to calm himself but the best he could manage was nodding his head against his brother's shoulder as he cried against the other.

Raphael can fucking snuggle on the floor if that’s what it takes. There is no shame in this. He knows Donatello would be the last one in the world to attack somebody for not living up to a certain standard of manliness. Besides, anybody who would try to come at him for helping out a brother who has been suffering like Don has, those people can suck on his non-existent nutsack.

He settles in, rolls with it even, giving him a tug and urging him to scoot back a few so that he can rest the weight of his shell against the heavy door. He tugs Don back to a spot where he can comfortably drape on Raph with his beak nestled on his upper plastron.

His scratched and combat-battered chest plates rise with several steady, indrawn breath and the silence stretches for an intimidated beat or two before he gathers the courage to begin. “I don’t think... I don’t think we can stop everything.” His next exhale comes out a sigh. “I ain’t sure we’re even s’pose to. But we aren’t helpless, either. It’s like... it’s like, yeah. Some of this shit is coming for us, Donnie. Whether we like it or not. At this point, my pessimistic brain is pretty much expecting to see more and more of it. It scares the hell out of me. And I know it’s way harder for you, I know that! You fucking lived it, man. I can’t even imagine.”

He wets his mouth and frowns into the darkness on the other side of the room. “It’s gonna be real fucking hard, what I’m suggesting, but... I think, like, to give ourselves the best possible shot? We gotta pick and choose our battles. We gotta get out of this mode where we are just reacting, just trying to undo what already fucking happened, and we gotta really buckle down into prevention mode, you know what I’m saying? Maybe we are shooting ourselves in the foot by trying to prevent every single thing! We gotta be looking for the things we really CAN turn around, because we’ve seen for ourselves, man. Some of this shit is gonna be inevitable.”

Raphael goes on quietly, choosing his words with obvious care. “As for Leo... yeah, man. I don’t know what to tell ya. Leo got fucked hard by this curse, and he don’t even know it. He don’t know he’s fulfilling any prophecy. All he knows is that he’s in a real bad place. You wouldn’t know it from that stupid naggy letter of his, but right now that guy is about as scared and alone as I have ever seen him. But he’s Leo, so he’s not gonna let it show to us if he can help it. He just keeps putting the team and our safety before his own troubles. He soldiers on. And what happened with his eyes... it’s fucking terrible, but I don’t see what anybody could’a done differently. You aren’t a god, Donnie! Nobody’s expectin’ you to make beggars walk and blind men see.”

The silhouette of his head moves to suggest the slow shake of his head, the shift of air currents from another heavy exhale. “The only thing we coulda possibly done better was to write that one off sooner as a lost cause, redirected our efforts to the next thing. ‘Early-onset glaucoma’, man – we lost that round as soon as you said it. Soon as that diagnosis came outta your mouth, that was game-set-match.

“But here’s the thing, okay? There have been some losses, sure. There was a thing we had no hope to solve, and also some stupid, superficial shit that slipped by us, by which I mean, yeah. The glasses and good ole T.F.C. Y’know, maybe we coulda’ been sharper! Maybe we could’a positioned ourselves so far up in Leo’s business that we somehow got in front of it. Like, we coulda been such good pals to Leo that he actually wants fashion advice from us. We shoulda been more, whatchcallit – more metrosexual!” He coughs a laugh that makes his chest jump, and his good hand pats Don’s shell, already apologizing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’m taking it serious, I swear. I just, I gotta laugh sometimes, to offset the scary and sad things, or I start to feel crazy! But look, man... we could still turn this thing around! How about we plan a secret trip to Japan.” His good hand slaps gently on the back of Don’s arm. “Right now, just you and me! We’ll fucking... okay, first break into the Tribunal Temple. Cause’ it’s only a goddamn fortress chock full of elite and super magical ninja. I mean, what the fuck could go wrong?” He tucks his chin to angle a sort of grin at Don, to better convey the ridiculousness of plan, but he’s also checking to make sure his brother doesn’t mistake this ongoing playfulness in his suggestion.

There is an important point being made as he continues, “So what we’ll do is, we’ll find Leo. We torch the fucking coat while he sleeps. He can wake up to find nothing but a pile of ashes. Sure, he’ll probably feel real fucking hurt and betrayed. He won’t know what to think. Maybe we hate him, maybe we’ve lost our goddamn minds, but at least we scored a win. That’s the important thing, right? Leo will just have to _get over it_.”

Raphael’s pale green eyes have gone deadly serious, and all trace of the grin has left his expression to match the intensity and importance of what he promises next. “Listen. I won’t ever tell you to get over it again, okay? That was a stupid way to phrase it. Wasn’t what I really meant at all. Of course we gotta stay vigilant. We gotta keep being scared about this, it’s a given. But we also gotta focus on the wins that are really important to us, yeah? The very best thing that you could do to combat this – I mean, besides sticking it out with us no matter what. That’s the biggest thing, priority number one. But another real important step would be to stop focusing so much on the ways that we already failed, man! Because Leo might be a lost cause in a lot of ways. He was even technically responsible for ending Splinter’s life, but y’know what? I don’t hold that against him. And according to your dreams, I should’ve, right? But I don’t blame him, not anymore. And I don’t see how I could ever go back to blaming him.”

The hand that isn’t bandaged knocks gently on Donatello’s shell a couple times. “You did that, man. That was your victory, score one for the good guys. And it’s not a small thing, it’s huge! The four of us are still together. I mean, okay, right now we’re scattered to the fucking winds. Maybe we can’t band together and fight as a team, but we _all still would_ if it were possible. We all still wanna be a part of this family. Yeah, even Mike and Leo! Things’re all kindsa fucked up between those two, but they aren’t a lost cause. They still got love for each other, and at the end of the day they still wanna be brothers. These are the really important things. Maybe we’ll find we can’t change many of the damned omens, but we can still make a difference in how we feel about each other.”

Raphael draws in a slow, shaky breath. A lot of these strong emotions and ideas and worries continue to swirl inside him, but that was as concrete and coherent as he could make them. He is silent for another beat or two. A welling sense of shyness fills him, enough that he has to give a soft, self-depreciating laugh and clarify, “So... right, that’s all I got.”

Donatello simply did not have the energy in him to fight against the shift in position that Raph provided, submitting to the older turtle and resting his head wearily against Raphael's plastron as his body shook with his continued sobs. Though he had not fully calmed himself and the stream of tears continued to pour down his olive cheeks Donatello tried his best to listen to his brother's gravelly voice. When the monologue began the words simply made him cry more fiercely against Raphael’s battleworn plastron.

_He doesn’t think we can stop it._

The thought only lasted for a moment as Raph carried on, confirming that he believed that vigilance is key to their survival but that some things simply cannot be helped. He pressed his face more firmly against the red-banded shinobi, silently repeating to himself the points that Raphael was truly trying to communicate to him.

_Some things **are** fixed in time._

_Glaucoma is something that is a part of Leonardo’s genetic makeup. It was not an accident that could have been avoided. It is a disease that Leo had carried his whole life. We could not have **known** and we could not have **changed it**._

_We have to anticipate that these things **will** happen to our family._

_The things that do come to fruition are **not my fault.**_

Raphael’s chuckle jars him a little, causing the panic stricken genius to cling more tightly to his brother as he went on to explain his jestful and completely ludicrous plan to break into the temple where the deadliest of shinobi in the Universe reside for no other reason than to commit arson by destroying their brother’s most prized possession.

The idea of it all made Donatello begin to laugh against Raphael’s chest. The sound of laughter mingled with his continued tears would have been comical under other circumstances, but at the moment the sound merely came off as pitiful to him.

The genius managed to force himself to take a few shaky breaths as his laughter died away, focusing on Raph’s voice and the sound of his brother’s heart thudding beneath the hardened plaston on which he leaned. He knew that the worst of this wave of panic was over. If he could manage to focus on his breath and his brother’s messages. He was sure he could regain his footing.

_Count the small victories instead of looking for the omens._

_Look for things we can do to change the **impact** that these things have on us as a unit._

_Change the **reaction** , not the **omen**._

He closed his eyes, simply focusing on his breath as Raphael fell silent, chuckling and giving a dismissive end to his heartfelt soliloquy. He remained that way for, what was likely to feel to Raphael a painfully awkward amount of time as he began rubbing the hem at the very end of Raphael’s mask between his fingers and mumbling his mantra of elements until his tears had stopped, leaving the purple-banded shinobi feeling drained and numb.

Slowly and deliberately Donatello sat up, gently pushing himself off of Raph’s chest. He looked slightly disoriented for a moment as he scanned the floor around them until he finally found his thick framed glasses and pushed them back onto his face. He took a deep breath and nodded before turning his dull crimson gaze onto his brother.

“You are right… And… And I know everything you have said, it.. it just gets to be too much and… I get to the point that I can’t even think straight. I can’t sleep anymore.. I can barely eat… I am acting like a fucking psychopath.” Donatello rubbed his hands wearily along his face before letting his gaze become unfocused, trained on a darkened corner of the room, rather than his brother. “I don’t know that I can do this Raph. It is _too much_ … it is too big. I can’t do this for the rest of my life Raphie. I… _I just can’t_.”

“Oh... God, Donnie.” Raphael wraps both arms around to squeeze his brother tighter. “No,” he whispers, “Please don’t do that. Please don’t.” With more volume and urgency, the words mushing together, “N’ m’not sayin’ shut up and don’t talk about this anymore, I-I’m glad we’re talkin’, that you can talk to me, I just --”

His throat closes and he can say nothing for a time. His embrace has slackened some and he is silent but Don can feel his chest plates shake.

After a minute or two that seem to stretch forever, he manages to speak. He tries, anyway -- a barely coherent, ugly croak that comes out like rock salt and old coffee grinds. “Y’won’t always – woan’ always hafta... It ain’ fair t’give up yet! I only started helping! Y’gotta... gotta gimme _time_...”

Donatello offered no resistance as Raphael wrapped his arms around the genius’s malnourished frame once again. He barely even registered the feeling, however as an acute sense of numbness had overtaken most of his body, causing him to simply rag-doll into Raph’s embrace.  
  
He does note that Raph’s breathing has become shaky, the rise and fall of his plastron trembling slightly as he pleaded with Donatello over his vaguely implied plan to give up his fight. He rested his head once again against his brother, but this time there were no tears no sobs from the purple-clad shinobi. He did not feel as though he had any more to give.

He almost wished that he could stay permanently in this... fugue state. He was aware of who he was and the situation that had brought him to this place but he felt almost separated from himself - he was, for a moment, able to view it subjectively rather than be caught up in how it felt to be in this mess.

When he spoke to Raph his voice was hollow and weak, it was a sound that would have scared Donatello had he not been locked in a state of weary apathy. “It is okay Raphael. I will not be leaving any time soon.”

“Good, man. Cuzz’m gonna fuckin...” Raphael sniffles too loudly, cringes, and commits very firmly to knock it off with the waterworks. “I’m sorry, man,” he rasps and then starts chuckling - but not at Donnie, it’s all turned inward as he says, “I am some fucking badass, right? Gimme like, two more seconds and I’ll be cool. Jesus...” Having given up all pretense and no longer hiding that his emotions overtook him, Raph’s hand comes up to roughly knuckle at his snout. He forgets to use his left hand and is surprised when his beak touches the bandage, but – fuck it. Raph uses the gauze on the back of his hand to scrub tears and snot off his face like a barbarian.

It takes more than two seconds, maybe - but Raphael still manages to pull himself together pretty damn fast.

“Listen,” he says once he has mastered himself enough to speak in a voice that is soft and calm –but at the same time very serious and direct. This brother is _always_ a bit intense, even when perfectly calm. Donatello can probably feel the weight of his eyes in the darkness. “What you just said... I am gonna hold you to that. _Ain’t any time soon_ that ya’ leaving us. And if it starts to feel like - like things are going south, if – you feel like that’s _changing_? You better fill my whole damn screen with exclamation points.” This is, of course, an amendment to their existing secret code which has been in place for months. One exclamation point means he should come quickly because Don is having a panic attack.

Raphael reaches out his left hand and rubs it over the top of his brother’s head as he says, “You gotta _let me know_ , man. Give me the chance to help. This is your oath to me, Hamato Donatello. Will you fucking swear it?”

Donatello certainly noted the quiver in his brother's voice, that tremble of fear and vulnerability which Raphael tried to quickly suppress. Only in the most emotionally upheaving situations they had faced had he heard his brother sound like that. Even as the red banded shinobi chuckled and reprimanded himself for such behavior the hurt was still more than obvious in his tone and body language.

He made a mental note to apologize to Raph when he had exited this fog. An apology in the state of mind he was in would be far from heartfelt and he was sure that his brother would forgive him for delaying it.

He focused on the deep and rumbling words coming from the ninja beside him, meanwhile the purple banded turtle absently ran the hem of his brother's bandana betwixt his fingers, trying to use the texture of the textile to ground himself.

He let out a small sigh when he knew that it was his turn to speak. It was not his usual condescending and frustrated sigh, but rather one that simply expressed how exhausted and worn down he had become. The voice that left his lips was still void of emotion, a bleak and empty impersonation of his usual self, "I will. In the morning I will make a rapid text shortcut so I can send a distress text to you without second thought and will not be able to change my mind part way through... I will try to only use that one if things are looking critical."

This desolate voice Don is using now unnerves Raphael far more than his earlier fit of choking, wracking sobs. Rampant, runaway feelings... breaking down into ugly and uncontrollable tears... these are things the red-masked ninja can certainly understand -- though, to this day, he has trouble showing it in the company of anyone.

This numb state of detachment Don has slipped into, however -- this emotionless, yawning void -- is utterly alien. Raphael may very well TRY not to care about things -- at times, he tries so hard that he almost convinces himself. Once or twice in the thick of their legendary teenage tirades, grasping for insults and frustrated with Raph's latest stubborn show of non-compliance, Leo has flung the word "sociopath" at him -- but it has never been true. Detachment is something he must work hard to cultivate and actively maintain. Not once in his life has Raphael accidentally suffered a feeling of too little emotion.

He breathes in and wonders at the sudden lack of pain and sorrow in the air. Now Raph can only smell leather, the musk of reptile skin, burnt coffee, and the ever-present chemical stench of Don's hand sanitizer. He wonders if this emotional shut-down is healthy. He wonders if it feels nice.

It's fine, Raph decides. Don is just spent. That is something that happens to most people, he's pretty sure, even if the well of his own feelings never seems to run dry. He tells himself it's fine, because at least he obtained Don's promise.

"Good," he says, "because we need you. And not just for this big, heavy stuff but for all the little stupid shit. Like, nobody else in this family can figure out how to pick up a philips screwdriver and clean out the damn toaster. Nobody else can be trusted to pick out a decent movie, either! Leo's picks are all too boring and Mikey's are too goofy.

"Even tonight, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna literally need you!" he confesses, flashing his teeth in an uncomfortable grin. "'Cause I been thinking pretty soon I need to break down and beg a painkiller off you? Like... soon? Then I need you to go ahead open the childproof cap, 'cause, y'know, that will defeat me. And then, assuming you got something stronger than ibuprofen, I might need ya' to do all the driving for this B&E. And probably help me carry some shit. Otherwise this is gonna be a slow and clumsy, one-handed haul."

Raph gives a one-shouldered shrug, "Our options are basically that... or we just try to get by for a while down here with no coffee, food, or cigarettes."

Donatello lifted his head away from Raphael's plastron when his brother made mention of a need for painkillers. He was positive that the wrist he had broken with his staff earlier hurt like hell. The splint he had put it in should be helping to keep it steady at least, but he could smell in the air that the adrenaline which had flooded his brother earlier was ebbing away quickly- along with the relieving properties it held for pain management.

He gave a lame and passive nod to his brother, mumbling as he slowly removed himself from his brother's embrace and pushed himself into a standing position, "I can drive. I will need the coffee soon."

The genius made his way over to his desktop, each footstep bringing with it a myriad of strange sensations. The disassociation which he felt seemed to not only be within his mind, also manifesting by physical means. He knew consciously that he was moving his body, knew that he was lazy tapping on the keyboard to rouse his computer from sleep mode - but it felt as though he were observing it from an outside perspective, rather than actually performing the actions themselves.

_It... was pleasant..._

The purple banded turtle wished in that moment that he knew how he could induce this state permanently. Maybe with the right combination of substance it would be possible - but it would take some experimentation.

He opened up his medical files, pulling up Raphael's charts and quickly finding his calculations for medicine administration based off of the other turtle's weight and average caloric intake before he made his way to his small store of pharmaceuticals.

In only a few moments he was back beside his brother, a small silver tray in hand, laden with a syringe of clear liquid and a flimsy paper cup filled with two and a half white pills. Placing the tray on his lap he took the syringe in hand, holding out his other hand for his brother's wrist.  
Raphael isn't interested in whatever Don is pulling up on the computer. He doesn't get up to follow his brother but stays where he is at. He trusts Donnie to figure out whatever is best for him to take.

It's not until the syringe comes into view that extreme doubt flashes across his face. It's not that he's scared of needles, but his eyes go huge for a moment before narrowing to flicker uncertainly between the silver tray and Don's inscrutable face. "O-okaaay..." he murmurs, extending his arm very slowly. His vague frown flips to become a dubious grin as he quips, "Just checkin', but... we really are tryin' ta manage pain here, right? We ain't havin' a party."

He looked up at his brother at the joke he had made, normally he would have retorted with some smart ass comment - probably about how heroin is really just a form of morphine, but instead he just replied in the same halfhearted and emotionally void voice he had adopted in the last few minutes of their conversation, explaining almost robotically as he worked "This is a local anesthetic. It will ease the pain in your wrist - but provide no further side effects. It should wear off completely within two hours. If we take an hour and a half from now to go topside you can take this Percocet when we get home. It is slow release but will start to affect you just as this wears off."

He let out a small breath as he gently slid the needle into Raph's skin, sinking the plunger part way down, "The Percocet can cause constipation, nausea, vomiting, upset stomach, sleepiness, dizziness,lightheadedness, itching, headache, blurred vision, dry mouth and sweating. You have to let me know if any of these things start to occur. Take it with food. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery."  
He looked back up asking in a tone that sounded only mildly curious, "How does that feel?"

"Geez, Don!" Raphael finally can't help complaining, slipping a bit into his grumpy old man voice. "Come back to me! Ya talkin' like a goddamn robot readin' off the back of a medicine bottle. Take it with food?" He gestures incredulously with his left hand. "I just told ya. We don't GOT any food, and yer the one doing the driving!"

"And it feels..." He drops his eyes to scowl down at his wrist, but finally offers, "It don't feel. Not at all, hardly. So, uh... thanks."  
  
Donatello looked up at his brother as the red clad shinobi pleaded with him to come back from this bubble of disassociation in which he found himself. If Raphael knew the level of relief that he felt right now in simply feeling nothing there is no way that he would ask Donatello to come back out of it. But he knew that it was quite likely disheartening to view from the outside. To go from code red panic to nothingness in the drop of a dime.

He took a deep breath as he placed the syringe back on his little silver tray and set it to the side. "I'm sorry... " It was mumbled and halfhearted, though the purple clad turtle tried to add some emotion which he did not feel into the statement to placate his brother, mostly he just sounded exhausted. Donatello was positive that he would not be able to play his part in the small shopping trip they needed to do tonight if he allowed himself to fully ground. He needed this level headedness to accomplish any of it.

He lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck as he typically did when he had done something particularly embarrassing and let his gaze fall to the area between them, "I just need some sleep, Raphie. Things.... things always seem better in the morning." He lifted his gaze and added, "So let's just get our food and smokes quick so you can take your meds and I can go to bed. We can talk about all of this in the morning?"  
  
He was not completely numb anymore, yet he was not fully himself either. If he could learn to somehow walk this razor's edge between numb and panic... perhaps he would be able to make it through this.

"Yeah, man. Of course," Raphael nods, getting up somewhat awkwardly in his effort to rise one-handed. Even if the wrist doesn't hurt anymore, that doesn't mean it's ready to any support weight. He's going to have to keep that in mind repeatedly throughout this upcoming topside run. "And don't think you owe me any apology," he goes on to say, looking shame-faced for half a second before he looks sharply away. "Ya just..."

You freaked me out. Maybe it's plain to read on his too-honest face, but Raphael doesn’t want to say it. He sighs and rubs at his furrowed brow, as if massaging the symptom could alleviate the tension inside him -- or the tension that had sprung up between them. "I just... I love ya, Donnie," he says instead, knowing at least that this is equally true.

"And swear, I wanna make this easier instead of harder. So no more heavy stuff tonight, okay? This whole night has been pretty, uh... FUBAR." This is a nerd word he has only heard Donnie himself use, but Raph still remembers the explanation: fucked up beyond all recognition. It seems especially appropriate for tonight.

It was a mild relief to hear Don say he actually wants to try and get some sleep tonight. Only moments ago he was expressing a desire for more coffee!

Raphael actually hates that he is going to have to be the one on Don's back lately about all of that stuff for the foreseeable future. He'll probably have to set some arbitrary cut-off... maybe Don will even work with him to come up with where they should draw that line? How many consecutive hours awake are no big deal for someone like Don, even taking into account their enhanced mutant physiology and remarkable self-healing capabilities? Raph already knows it must be longer than the average human could safely handle, but how much longer? Raph has no flippin' clue. These are problems Don himself is better equipped to tackle, so if they can just come up with a number... a firm and immediate cut-off, so Don knows it isn't personal, knows Raph isn't getting on his case due to some power trip, that he isn't trying to be meddlesome...

God, it's honestly the last thing he wants! Raphael would so much rather be a friend to Donnie. Even as he outlines his very basic plan, his head is spinning with all of these new worries and consideration. Being leader is no leisurely stroll through Central Park

He has stepped into the role before, of course. Whenever Leo was held up in Japan doing mystic stuff or heads off for a visit with his BBF (a term Mike coined: Best Bunny Forever), Raph has been there to see that the training schedule is not disrupted and held down the fort until his return. But it was never so long as a month. He can tell already that this will be different.

Heavy thoughts continue to weigh on his mind, but Raph is determined to shoulder them silently for the rest of this night. In an easy-going rumble he proposes, "So we get there, we get in, we get out. Easy peasy. Gimme the biggest backpack ya got... you do the packing, I'll do the hauling. I only got about a hundred to blow, so unless you got anything to chip in, we might actually be stuck sharing a carton... or leaving an IOU. Which I kinda hate doing, honestly."

Fuck... this habit is expensive. For the first time it occurs to Raph, how much they're about to spend on smokes... several times the cost of their other basic needs combined! As leader, finances are yet another unpleasant thing he's going to have to keep an eye on...

But not tonight, the chunin decides firmly. Tonight their team morale is his priority.

Donatello stood alongside his brother, his own movements far more graceful than the injured shinobi. His crimson gaze met those pale green eyes before Raphael quickly turned away from him. The unspoken message here was certainly not lost on Donatello. Raph was scared of him... more accurately, Raph was scared _for_ him.

He could not really blame him though. Donatello was, truthfully, a little scared for himself as well.

The slightest of smiles tugs at the corner of his mouth when Raphael uses one of his favorite terms. Uses it rather perfectly, as well. "Apropos." He mutters softly, giving his brother a small nod in response. The night had gone from F.U. to F.U.B.A.R. rather quickly with mostly himself to blame for the downward spiral.

Raph's next instructions are met with Donatello quickly grabbing two of his oversized duffle bags from inside one of his many tall metal shelving units which line one wall of the lab, the bags should be plenty big enough to hold what they need from their topside excursion. Over his shoulder he replies, "I have got money. I pulled some overtime the last few weeks. Paycheck was pretty decent."

Some overtime was an under exaggeration. Whenever Donatello was unable to sleep he often logged on to work. Tedious tech support was one of his coping skills at this point. While he was helping people fix their computers, Neanderthals that he was sure had only tried beating the damn things with rocks before offering them up to the bright disk of fire in the sky along with a virgin sacrifice, he found that he was unable to concentrate on his own woes.

He heaved the bags over his shoulder and grabbed his set of keys off of a hook on the wall. He turned on his heel and strode from the room calling as he went, "Let's get this over with."


	3. Without A Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo copes with the heartbreaking decision to send Michelangelo away and leave the remainder of his clan on their own as he takes care of some business and travels to the Tribunal’s Fortress to stand before the Council on Michelangelo’s behalf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( this scene actually takes place part way through BENCHED. It will not affect the story, however, to read it afterward.))

Leonardo is almost ready to go. All the journals he had filched from Mike’s packs were stowed away. He had swapped them for fresh, blank new ones. Mike was sure to be pissed, but it couldn’t be helped.

This evidence had been demanded for review, and any delay in bringing it forward would reflect poorly on the Hamato Clan. He hadn’t been able to keep himself from peeking inside them. What he had read had shattered him.

Michelangelo was the _Kusudama Killer_. The victims were not being claimed or identified because they were members of the Foot Clan. The Foot Clan’s accusations were all true.

It was not that the suspicion had not already crossed Leonardo’s troubled mind, but having it confirmed in Mike’s own handwriting had been a terrible blow. He hadn’t been able to read any more than that, having quickly stuffed the book back into his satchel as Raphael burst into the room to comfort him.

He was composed now, and vowed not to read any further. Very shortly, his ability to maintain composure was going to become very important. He took a deep breath and carried his gear out onto to the upper landing, then made his way down the stairs.

The dark glasses are back in place, though his eyes are mostly shadowed by the wide brim of his traveling hat. The brown coat that matched this hat wore out a few years ago, and has been replaced with a black leather trench crafted by one of the finest tanners in Usagi’s part of the world. Back when things were… different.

It is a garment which upsets his brother Donatello every time he sees it, for some reason – though Leo still cannot fathom why. Don certainly refuses to explain, or even acknowledge, that he has a problem with it. But it fits Leo perfectly, and reminds him of a more optimistic and carefree time in his life. Until Donatello can bring himself to provide at least one of his good, solid, logic- and evidence-based reasons as to why what he wears is even an issue, then his badass Harry Dresden tribute trench coat is going to stay.

The eldest puttered around the common area for a bit, looking through some books he loved but had decided not to take. He began packing his calligraphy set at the last minute, and generally stalling for time. But eventually he gave up on the notion that his brothers might emerge from Don’s lab anytime soon.

Leonardo penned a heartfelt letter of goodbye instead. In his lovely, slanting script he expressed his hope that they relax, recuperate, and assured them that he would do whatever it takes to get Mikey out of this terrible situation. They could contact him for council on clan matters at any time using Raphael’s amulet, the one Splinter had given to him upon the completion of his Five-Fold Path. They could use it to speak to him regarding ‘important clan matters’. Talent level of the wearer was unimportant; as the artifact was imbued with its own power and had been attuned specifically to serve Raphael. If Donatello wished to speak privately, he might try holding an item of Raph’s which held spiritual significance and was carried often, like his sai or his mask. The pendant had no intelligence and was merely a magical tool, and Leo was fairly confident the safeguards on the artifact could be bypassed in this way.

All the technical terms were his (maybe transparent) efforts to put Don and Raph more at ease with this mystic mode of communication. It was, unfortunately, the only option they had for communication while he was sealed off in the Tribunal’s compound, a fact which he patiently tried to explain _ad nauseum_.

Leonardo explained this next part with more pressure in his strokes, so that the fountain pen’s gleaming black lines became heavier with emphasis:

I will not be able to come home, for any reason, until I have seen this through.  
Lay low. Avoid conflict. Stay alive and together at all costs.

Sensing the desire to drop into what Raph called ‘Mommynardo Mode’ and start fondly lecturing them, Leo cut the letter short with: Love you both.

And beneath it, in fancy ‘show off’ calligraphy that Raphael was sure to hate:

_Hamato Leonardo_

He left his letter on the coffee pot for them to find that following morning and departed through a glowing door without fanfare.


	4. Gifts and Burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo makes an unannounced appearance to thank Usagi for his willingness to aide with Michelangelo’s continuing trials. But things do not go as smoothly as planned when old wounds are reopened from the pair’s past.

Usagi had lead Michelangelo to the camp he had stayed in the night previously while he waited for the young shinobi’s arrival. It was a meager camp, but it suited him well. The lean to he had created was enough to shield him from winds and made a comfortable shelter for the night. He had created it large enough so that he could offer a bed to his companion, but he simply nodded when Mikey said that he would rather sleep among the trees.

The ronin had not bothered to light a fire, having already eaten, but he did place some wood next to the pit, should the turtle decide that he would like one during the night. With that, the rabbit entered the lean to and made himself comfortable within his bed roll.

It took him awhile to fall asleep, for the first stretch of time that he lay there, the ronin just watched Mikey move about the campsite, but soon he found himself drifting off to sleep. He did hope that Michelangelo would do the same soon.

When he woke, it was obvious that his young friend had done nothing of the sort. The intricate designs that covered the ground within their campsite were beautiful and had obviously taken a great deal of time to create. He straightened his clothing as he walked around the camp in a wide circle, taking in the details of the design before tasking himself with the chore of lighting a fire to make some rice for the pair’s breakfast.

Leonardo is waiting by the prepared fire when Usagi returns to it. Not all of him, of course. His form is ghostly, incorporeal, just as it was last time. But at _some_ point while the ronin was walking the perimeter of the camp, absorbed in the ground at his feet, the Jōnin must have been here in the flesh, at least for a moment. A bundle wrapped in conspicuously bright orange cloth, placed carefully between him and the unlit fire, is all too real.

The turtle sits in lotus position, wearing the black jacket they commissioned together years ago, looking as serene as if he had been invited to breakfast.

“Ohayou **(Hello)** ,” he calls out softly, not wanting to alert Michelangelo. He can’t handle that right now. The truth is, he can barely handle _this_ – but he refuses to let it show. His gaze is fearless, steadily watching the rabbit’s approach.

Usagi's head snapped upward at the all too familiar voice that sounded from behind him, officially disregarding the doodles that were etched into the dirt. He turned on his heel and instantly frowned at the sight that met his eyes. Leonardo sat by his fire, but it was the same incorporeal form he had used to speak to him the previous evening. His frown increased still further when he noted the package at Leo's side.

He could not help but feel disappointment, as well as the slightest twinge of anger at the implications of that wrapped bundle. He let out a small sigh and looked up to meet the turtle's milky eyes. "Hello, Leo."

Leonardo dips his chin slightly in greeting. "I can't stay long," he attempts to explain, rather stiffly. "Once the shields are erected around this place I am forbidden to make contact. Even like this."

Not quite an apology. It is not even completely truthful. He would insinuate that outside circumstance are his only reason for appearing thus, when really it is his own weakness. The whole truth, of course, is that he barely trusts himself to remain strong in the face of this one, his beloved ronin.

"I just wanted to explain -- I hoped that in sending him here, I could stall for time. Clear up some of these troubles which surround him, maybe even delay his trials and give him time to grieve. But that is not going to be within my power. The Tribunal will follow him, even here. His trials will continue, and if he does not face them with honor, to the best of his ability, the end result will be... too terrible to say." He closes his eyes briefly and admits, "I really wish I could say more."

Usagi set his jaw as Leo explained his motivations behind saddling him with the care of Michelangelo during the remaining portion of the lad's Tribubal tests. When the yokai finishes his train of thought the ronin let out a heavy breath and took a few steps closer, no matter the twinge of anger that he felt towards the shinobi, the affection was far greater, "Leonardo-san... it matters not to me the motivation, I would do this for you _regardless_... I would do anything you asked of me."

The rabbit brought a paw up to rub the back of his neck as he sighed deeply, "But I will watch over him. I will try to teach him what I know and hope that he makes his choices in line with those lessons." He glanced upward at Leo, knowing that even though he had lost his sight, the turtle was far from blind. In fact, it was likely that he could see better than most at this point. "I wish that you would have come to talk to me, Leo."

"And _what_ would you have me say?" Leonardo counters too sharply, a knee-jerk rejoinder to the painful way his chest tightens at Usagi's words. "My family comes first. They will always come first. What I want for myself scarcely matters at all when one of them is in danger. I _thought_ you understood that."

_I can't. I can't rehash it all over again. Please don't make me._

"Please give him this for me. A peace offering." He spent many hours constructing it, polishing it until the wood gleams under the slightest kiss of light. Once he had foolish young dreams of serenading the ronin with it's soft, muted sounds, but... he shakes his head and roughly declares, "I was never any good with it."

The ronin's jaw nearly dropped at the harshness in Leo's voice. This certainly was not the first time that the pair had a conversation of this ilk. The previous conversation that they had all those seasons ago still stung him profoundly when it resurfaced in his mind. Leo was far less harsh then, but he was still set, determined and unwavering. Each reason that the shinobi gave why they could not carry on as they had serving as another turn upon the rack, a torture that was still as real to the samurai this day as it had been then.

He still held out hope, however. The rabbit had waited patiently through the turn of two years for the young ninja to come to his senses... and come back to him.

Usagi's gaze dropped to the ground at his feet quietly mumbling, "I had _hoped_ to be a part of that family..." He physically shook his head to try to dispel the train of thought that had so often caused an unhealthy spiral for him. "I will make sure that Michelangelo receives your gift."

Leonardo rises swiftly and begins to pace, agitated and unable to acknowledge the first thing Usagi said to him. _Not now. Please, not now!_ This is the worst possible time to become completely unraveled with unrelated emotions.

"Thank you. He's probably going to need something like this. You both will... he's easier to manage when he’s entertained." Leo's hand comes up to massage his face briefly, muttering, "Dôshiyô **(What do I do)**? You don't even understand what a handful he can be lately. I am so sorry to ask this of you, Usagi. I literally don't know what else to do." He looks around at the crazy designs which appear to him as glowing runes in the earth, waves a weary hand at them as if Mikey's creative expression is just another troubling symptom. "As you can see, he's become unbalanced. And for some reason, he... decorates everything."

Usagi knitted his brow as he watched the specter of the shinobi he held so dear stand and begin to pace a circle without ever actually touching the ground. It is not lost on him that Leo fully and unabashedly ignores his voiced vulnerability. However, while it stings that the warrior who was his lover for so many years could disregard his reaching out it was not wholly unexpected. After all, Leo had not spoken to him for two full years after he had ended their relationship and even now, was only willing to be around him as a mental projection.

It was in this moment though, this pivotal moment when Usagi had reached out and taken a risk to let Leonardo know that he wanted to be with him and had waited for the shinobi to change his mind and was given silence and dismissal in return that he felt his resolve waver.  
  
_He is not coming back..._

The ronin set his jaw as he listened to Leo's harsh words about his brother, eyes following Leo's gestures to the designs on the ground which he had been admiring mere minutes before. Each moment that passed the samurai could feel a heaviness coming over him not unlike the one that followed him for months after Leo had first left him.

When he responded it was in a voice that was playing at being calm, stoic and level-headed, but for any of those who truly knew the ronin the edge of sadness was evident. "I am honored that you think highly enough of me to entrust me with... one of the people you care so dearly for. I am sure that I will manage and will do my best to do well by Michelangelo and your clan while he is in my care, Leonardo-san.”

Leonardo is silent for several long and heavy moments, staring off into the darkness with those eerie, sightless eyes. He glances back at Usagi, and when he speaks his voice is made scratchy and soft with the swift currents of emotion running under the surface of his carefully constructed calm. "You show me far more kindness than I deserve."

He draws a slow and steadying breath before speaking more decisively. "It won't do, Usagi. It isn't fair, imposing on you this way -- saddling you with this incredible burden, when I haven't even..." He stops abruptly and must recenter himself again. The thread of this conversation has grown perilous.

Leonardo is convinced that the sad tatters of his friendship cannot possibly be worth what he is asking of Usagi. Intent on balancing the scales, he stalks back over to where he sat before and makes a gesture at the ground.

There, blending in with the dirt and looking quite unremarkable next to the brilliant orange fabric wrapped around the gottan, is a second gift. A small leather pouch.

Even as he gestures to it, Leonardo knows a sudden stab of fear. Somehow he had convinced himself that Usagi would have moved on by now, or at least put more distance between himself and this tangled mess which is Leonardo's heart. But he knows now that it is not so. And while some secret part of him is overjoyed to learn this, Leo also knows in a flash of sudden insight that this offering will not be well received.

There is no sentiment at all in this gift. Inside the satchel Usagi will find only currency -- a combination of silver monme and gold ryo -- or at least, exact enough duplicates as the Ninja Tribunal was able to recreate. Coins filched from the same stash which will fund the Tribunal mystics who are even now planning a long-term infiltration of this world.

He has just paid Usagi the fee he would normally charge a client for six months of service as a yojimbo.  
  
Usagi's amaranth eyes were fixed on the turtle who stood staring off into the distance for several long moments. Though the wind had picked up slightly and ruffled the fabric of his kimono, Leo's long black coat remained as still as ever. One more reminder of how far they truly were from each other.

The sight of the turtle dressed as he was is enough in and of itself to bring a flood of memories to the ronin. The jacket, which was made of the finest tokage hides that their pooled money could afford at the time was a gift to the young warrior. It had been of Leo's design, but the two of them had commissioned it together from the finest craftsmen in the land. He could still recall the way that Leo's brilliant blue eyes had shone with happiness as he adorned the article, holding his arms out wide to show it off to the ronin as he did a graceful and joyous spin before launching himself into Usagi's arms with a youthful laugh.

All of that seemed so long ago now.

For a moment, when Leo looked back to him, he could swear that the shinobi's voice held the edge of regret, but with one steadying breath it was gone. The hard demeanor he had seen in the last few days resurfaced as Leo gestured to the ground once more. It only took a few short steps for Usagi to reach the indicated spot and find the small leather pouch.

His brow began to furrow as he recognized it as Leo's own money pouch which he carried with him through all his adventures in Usagi's land. He opened it carefully with his thumb and saw inside the glint of coin. Almost immediately it dawned on him what Leo's intentions were, rather than allow him to do this for him, as his friend, as his lover, as the man that Leo once called his 'mate' he had instead reduced the ronin to a paid servant.

For a moment hot tears stung his eyes, threatening to fall at a moment's notice, but Usagi took a deep breath, letting sheer anger overcome the hurt that he felt. His gaze snapped upward at the boy he had wanted to spend his life with, a fire burning in the depths of those amaranth eyes. With a snarl the rabbit threw the pouch on the ground at Leo's feet, coins spilling out into the dirt and passing through the turtle's incorporeal form.

He gave the youth a deep and obviously insincere bow and through gritted teeth growled, "As you wish, _Leonardo-sama_."

Leonardo is not able to keep the stricken look off his face this time. His expression snaps tight with pain, properly slapped in the face by these words and bitten by the tone of them. It is a violent shift at first, but quickly slows. He draws another even breath, trying to recover like he did before, and failing.

The most he manages is not to cry.

The grief on his face is raw and real. His eyes grow larger, searching Usagi’s face in silent wonder and horror.

“You _waited_ ,” he whispers. “All this time. You’ve been waiting for me.”

_Namu amida butsu, what have I done?_

When the ronin straightened himself from the bow his glare locked onto the face of the shinobi before him, a face which was contorted in sorrow and anguish. His gaze did not soften, no, rather his brow furrowed further when he looked upon this illusion of his companion.

How dare he? How dare Leo stand there and act as though he is the one who was done wrong?

The samurai felt as though he could scream. Or cry. But he knew himself well enough to know that if he allowed himself to do either, he would likely do both. So he remained silent, but his chest rose and fell at a quicker pace, his paws clenched into fists and furiosity shone in his amaranth orbs.

Leonardo's voice carried on the wind to him. The slight whisper fell on him as if he had been doused by water. Had Leo truly thought that he would have moved on?

He quickly turned his back on the shinobi as a few tears betrayed him, rolling down his cheeks and soaking into the soft fur there. He brought one arm up, wiping away the mutinous tears with the sleeve of his kimono and quietly calling over his shoulder, " _Hai_. I have waited."  
  
“I’m so sorry, Miyamoto,” Leonardo rasps. “I.. I warned you not to.”

Does that mean Leo himself did not wait? It is much harder to read him accurately while turned away. Usagi cannot see him cringe with shame and regret as he thinks: _How did I bungle this so completely_?

The truth is that he has tormented himself plenty with the notion that Usagi may have already replaced him. The ronin is so charming, and meets so many people in his travels. He does not need to operate from the shadows, and Leonardo has watched him win the respect and gratitude of those he aids time and again. He has worked hard to acclimate to the idea. He was not Usagi’s first romance, he told himself. Why should Leonardo presume to be his last?

Now he knows for certain, but only after insulting and wounding his friend and lover. Perhaps this is what finally shatters their love beyond repair. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he begins in a desperate rush, “Earlier! I only wanted...” He abruptly realizes his excuses are meaningless. There is no excuse for how he has wronged Usagi. “I’m sorry,” he says again, at a loss.

Most tragic of all, there will be no time to make it right.

With a fresh stab of panic, the specter of Leonardo takes out an object that appears all but invisible. Technology like the shell cell casts only the faintest projection in his three-fingered hands. “Twelve minutes,” he gasps. “In twelve minutes I have to stand before all of them. I have to defend Mike, even as I bring them damning new evidence. I...”

Glaucoma caused no damage to his tear ducts, and the threat of them is back, a fresh sting of salt and heat that is completely unacceptable. No, no, no. He has already devoted so much precious time to this anguish. He broke down in front of Raphael – and again, in his living quarters at the Temple when he was finally alone. He would have more time with Usagi right now if not for all that he wasted with these useless tears!

The ground at his feet was decorated with swirling patterns which were quite reminiscent of water, they were truly beautiful but the ronin was unable to appreciate their beauty. His gaze was locked on them but he was not truly taking them in, more so he was looking past them, too absorbed in his own inner turmoil to actually recognize them for what they were.

Leo's voice sounded from behind him, practically chastising him for having held on to the faint glimmer of hope he had that his lover would return to him. He says nothing, merely listens to the hurried apology, only acknowledging the terrapin when he hears an edge of trepidation in his voice at the thought of defending his younger brother to the council of mystics.

He turned slowly, taking in the sight of the young shinobi, nearly broken down in tears. He hadn't the slightest idea what it was that Michelangelo had done, apart from deserting his training, that Leonardo would have to defend him of. However, it was obvious that this was pushing Leonardo to his breaking point. It was a sight that tore at his heart.

He cleared his throat to prevent his voice from cracking when he spoke, the last thing he wanted to do was to appear more weak than he already had in front of the turtle. "I am confident that your advocacy of Michelangelo will be well received." He glanced up to the tree in which the youngest of the shinobi clan now rested and let out a heavy sigh, "I will keep him safe while he is... my charge."

“Ganbaru **(I'll do my best)** ,” Leo says, and his voice does creak as he bows his head, looking wholly the opposite of confident. But he is determined to try. In twelve minutes he will have to at least appear confident. “Thank you, Usagi-san. I am not worthy of a friend like you.”

He pinches the skin between his eyes and whispers, “Gods... I didn’t want to have to do this.”

Leonardo drops his hands to his own chest. A ghost image appears over his hands, blank white five-fingered hands which blaze into being. These spirit hands somehow appear more solid than the three-fingered green ones they overlay. In this way he forms the clumsy approximation of a hand-sign with his real hands, but to perfection in spirit. “Kokoro...” he whispers, forming RIN in the emitting stance to channel inner power, “...no ishi.” His hands flash to display ZEN in the receptive stance, now channeling to eliminate stress and conflict from his mind.

He pulls in a small gasp, like he had been submerged and is coming up for air. His posture straightens, becoming graceful and relaxed. His fingers lift to swipe away the remaining tears hanging in his eyes, no longer concerned that Usagi sees his weakness. When his milky-white eyes focus again on the ronin, the face he wears is as blank as empty parchment.  
  


It is amazing how much such a small word can sting. Even when it is used with the best of intentions. The pair of them had often, with great affection referred to one another as "my friend", but now when the shinobi calls him his friend Usagi found it to be as painful as a blow to his gut. It seemed, to him, to be placation rather than affection. They had, after all, been so much more than that. Yet now, he was, from this moment forward, Leo's yojimbo.

He shook away the thought as the visage of Leonardo went through the precise motions and mantras to bring him a temporary reprieve from the tumultuous feelings within him. It was a process that he had seen the lad use many times before, Leo had even attempted to teach him some, but the ronin had never possessed the proclivity for the mystical arts that the turtle did. He was far better suited for the sword.

Leonardo's somber and unfazed expression is almost haunting. He quickly realizes that he is not going to get any more vulnerability from this conversation. The blind shinobi has adorned his mask and shut him out... again.

He let out a heavy sigh and inclined his head. His voice is laced with sadness, but the fire from his anger has all but dissipated into scarcely glowing embers. His head remains bowed as he says in little more than a whisper, "Ganbatte... koyo-sha." **(Good luck... my employer.)**

Leonardo’s mouth presses together in disapproval at the way Usagi addresses him – but it’s his own fault, and he damn well knows it. The turtle in black moves closer, studying the ronin in silence for several moments. Then he promises evenly and with infuriating calm, “I will make this up to you someday, Miyamoto. I will find a way, somehow. I swear it.”

He glances down at the scattered coins. “Please don’t leave those in the dirt for just anyone to find – the Tribunal, in particular. It wouldn’t go well for either of us, if I were accused of covertly helping Mike. At the time, I felt… desperate to decrease the burden I was placing on you. But it was reckless and foolish to take them. I have done far more harm than good in coming here at all. I see that now.” Leonardo gives his head a small shake of vague regret and looks up into the nearby trees. “Unfortunately, it is far too late to return them. So… what’s done is done.” He can see the steady lantern of his little brother’s formidable spirit, motionless and channeling a restive, dreamless state.

“Do you have any last questions for me?” he asks softly, refocusing on the ronin. “Our time grows very short.”

Usagi straightened himself, looking up into that blank face as the shinobi addressed him. So much time had gone by that he had longed to be able to see Leonardo again, but now, as he looked upon the boy, seeing that rigidity and callousness he could not help but feel a stabbing and bitter disappointment. This warrior before him did not bring to him the airy and light feeling that Usagi once relished but rather a cold distance and sense of detachment that pained Usagi to an almost physical level.

He gave a small nod at the plea to not leave the money lying where it was. Regardless of his current feelings he could not and would not do anything that he knew would risk Leo’s good standing with the Tribunal.

He wanted to counter the thought that Leonardo had made things worse by coming, but when he tried to speak he closed his mouth quickly, knowing that he would not be able to speak with candor. Truly, the previous night when he was asked to watch over the young shinobi, he had felt as though this were his opportunity to show Leonardo that he was dedicated to the well being of the Hamato clan, to step up as a source of strength when Leo needed it. But the conversation this morning had all but dashed his hopes.

The only question that Usagi truly wanted to ask the sword-wielding ninja was;

_Do you still love me?_

But he bit his tongue, holding it back. He knew the turtle well enough to know that after Leonardo had gone through the trouble of centering his calm through mystical means, mere minutes before facing one of the most dangerous councils in existence with the chore of persuading them to give mercy to the young ninja in the trees, that such a question, one that may break his resolve once more would likely be viewed as an equally offensive gesture as the coins on the ground were.

He shook his head, “I know what it is expected of me, Leonardo-sama. I will watch over Michelangelo to the very best of my abilities.”

I never doubted it,” Leonardo assures him. The bastard actually smiles.

“Please tell Michelangelo…” There is so much he would say to Mikey – but very little that would not violate the Tribunal’s expectations of him. A slight and thoughtful frown turns down the corners of his mouth, though his brow remains smooth and unmarred. Finally, he continues, “Just tell him thank you. For finally calling me sensei. It just wasn’t enough to change what has to be done at this point. But I did notice. And it did matter.”

The turtle feels a curious tightness in his chest now, in spite of his channeled calm. He ignores it.

He’s already forming another gesture: the sign for RETSU inverted, meant to recall his spirit back to his body in Japan. “Take care of yourself, Usagi-san,” he says, even as his ghostly form begins to fade.

_Of course you never doubted it. Why would you? I’ve not given you reason to doubt me in all our years._

They are thoughts that he once again keeps to himself. Steeling himself against the emotions he felt as he looked at the smile on Leo’s lips. It is a sight that furrows his brow regardless of his silence.   
  
_Is it entirely necessary to be so smug about this, Leonardo? My servitude is not enough?_

He nods at Leo’s request, silently assuring the turtle that his message, as well as his gift, would be passed along to the young shinobi in his care.

_Yes. It must mean a lot to have someone you care about treat you with the respect you deserve._

He could feel his anger rising again, coming to a boiling point. He felt the urge to speak his mind, aggressively, becoming unbearable. The anger was short lived however, when Leonardo told him to take care, slowly disappearing before him, anger was replaced by sadness and panic. Even if he was livid at the ninja now, he had no way to know when or if he would see him again. He replied with a desperation in his voice, hoping that the simple statement could do to express everything that he felt, to let the shinobi know that his feelings had not faltered in spite of all of this, “Please stay safe, Leo.”

When the turtle had gone and he was left looking at an empty and all too still forest he added in a whisper, “…Daisukiyo **(I love you)** …”


	5. Councils and Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo has to face down the Council on his own on behalf of Michelangelo. Can he convince them to spare his youngest brother?

The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips as the form of Miyamoto Usagi faded away and he was left in his own chambers, very much alone.

The tightening feeling in his chest fluttered briefly at the rabbit's final words to him, and the tone with which they were called out. " _Please stay safe, Leo_." echoed in his mind. No matter the hardships that the pair of them had faced, nor how damaging that confrontation could have been, his beloved ronin still cared for him in the end.

_Perhaps things were not as irreparable as he had believed them to be._

He shook his head and took a deep breath to dispel the thoughts that had begun to creep their way into his mind, disrupting the calm that he had achieved. There would come a time that he would be able to fix things with Usagi but before that was possible he had to handle this situation with Michelangelo and the council.

His faded leather satchel was thrown over his shoulder, within it, Michelangelo's personal journals which confirmed in his own words that he truly was the Kusudama Killer. Having been hunting down members of The Foot Clan one by one and disposing of them without mercy. No trace of affiliation with a ninja clan had been left. The murders had been eloquent, precise and without error. There was a beauty and grace in them that Leonardo would not have believed Mikey capable of had he not read the confessions himself.

The energy and anger that Mikey had poured into the pages caused each character to shine as brightly as the aura which surrounded the nunchuck master himself. The knowledge that his own brother was capable if something like this had stopped Leonardo in his tracks. Something like this should never have been able to fly beneath his radar.

His steps were silent as he made his way through the shinobi stronghold. He knew this sanctuary well, having spent much of his time here since becoming the master of his clan, which seemed to be under careful watch of the council of elders that made up The Tribunal. His bare feet barely touched the highly polished wooden floor as he made his way to the chamber in the center of the compound which was used for trials and war meetings.

He paused for the space of a heartbeat before pushing the door open and entering with his head held high, his stride not betraying the flicker of fear he felt as the gathering turned their attention to him. It took only a few moments before he was in the center of the room and sunk to his knees next to another form who was in a similar submissive position.

The pair rose and turned to one another, giving respectful, albeit stiff bows to the other.

" _You were very nearly late_ , Hamato Leonardo." Her voice was low, smooth as ever and rung with a deadly confidence and venom. It was obvious that she believed that she and her clan held the upper hand in this.

"But I was _not_ late, Oroku Karai." He said with a pleasant smile before turning his attention to the Elders who sat before them.

The old human in the center of the five held up his hand for attention, as he spoke his voice carried through the chamber as if magnified by some unseen force.

"Greetings to all who have come to bear witness to this trial. We have gathered together today to address the fate of one, Michelangelo of the Hamato Clan of Earth. He has been accused of the unlawful murder of seventeen members of the Foot Clan of Earth and of abandoning his training to graduate as a member of good standing in the eyes of this council. Have you, the respective leaders of your clans, any evidence which should be brought to light?"

Both shinobi dug through their bags and pulled out journals. It was surprising to him that Karai had thought to bring evidence so similar to his, then again they had always shared many similarities. They walked in unison towards the elders and placed the books before the oldest and wisest shinobi who had addressed them. The old man gestured first to Karai, giving her the floor to speak.

"What I have presented to you is the personal journals of one Daniel Andopolis, known by Danny, who was a member of my clan until recently. We have tested to confirm their authenticity, however no offense shall be taken should you decide to perform your own tests.

Within the pages the young ninja described a budding friendship with Michelangelo of the Hamato clan.

Danny became dissatisfied with the practices of the Foot he deserted his post, fleeing with the Hamato ninja. Their relationship is described to have evolved into one of a romantic nature in the six days that it took for my shinobi to track down the deserter and deal with him accordingly.

We believe that the turtle's actions have been of revenge for the loss of his lover."

The old sage only nodded at Karai's description and gestured in turn to Leonardo.

"My evidence that I present to you are the journals of Michelangelo of the Hamato clan. They do confirm the story which was told by Oroku Karai. Michelangelo did kill the members of the Foot Clan, as he has been accused of, this much is true. However, I submit to you that the Hamato and the Foot clans have been in an active clan war for many generations. Many warriors from each have fallen at the hands of the other.

While Michelangelo's methods were unique and troublesome, they were not cruel in nature, which is far more than be said about the deaths that either of our clans have experienced at one another's hands in the past."

The old sage raised his hand to silence Leonardo before asking in a curious voice, "His methods?"

Leo nods as he continues on to say, "Michelangelo has been using a method that many in the Hamato Clan, who have a proclivity for energy manipulation, have used throughout generations. Using your own chi to influence the mind of another. He would render them incapable of defending themselves by paralyzing them with their own fear. He would alter the flow of chi when he was about to strike his blow to that of euphoria. That way, there was no struggle. He always used a single, solid blow with which to end them."

"A cowardly way to win a fight, if you ask me." retorted Karai from his side.

" _You were not asked_ , Oroku Karai." The voice belonged to one of the other elders who had sat listening to Leonardo speak. "The use of chi manipulation has been widely practiced and accepted as a means of combat for shinobi through many centuries. Hamato Michelangelo's proficiency in it, especially at his young age, should be _celebrated_ , not _punished_."

An old man directly at the side of the one who spoke cut in, "It is not his methods that we are gathered here to discuss. His skills are impressive and admirable, that is so. However, we have rules in place to ensure honorable combat amongst the clans in our guild. The young Hamato warrior, as a member of this guild should have petitioned us for leave to enact this revenge upon the Foot Clan."

The comment was met by a scoff from the elder at the end of the row, "Hamato Michelangelo is not a member of this guild. _May I remind the council_ that he _abandoned_ his training? That labels him as a rogue among us and denies him the protection we could offer."  
  
The center elder once again held up his hand, demanding reverence from the other shinobi. "Upon my request for Hamato Leonardo to join us today he has stated that Michelangelo has committed to resume his training, to pass the final three tests required of him. Is this true?"

Leonardo nodded, "Hai. Michelangelo is going to be continuing his training in the realms governed by the Neko Clan. He currently is in the care of a ronin Yojimbo. While his training is in the arts of Ninjitsu I felt that, due to the tests he performed poorly in, learning from one who is a master of Bushido may do him well. They are, if nothing else, an honorable lot. He can learn a great deal from this samurai, who has proven to me time and time again to be courageous, selfless, community oriented, compassionate and a highly skilled warrior."

The elder thoughtfully ran his fingers through the long hair on his chin before turning to address his peers. "We do not want to waste the talent that resides within the young turtle warrior. Too few are those who will be able to pass on the ancient arts to future generations. But without being a member in good standing, he would be considered a rogue and we could not prevent the Foot Clan from enacting whatever vengeance they see fit. If the lad can pass his tests within the eight months that would be remaining of his training period he can be considered one of us and face, instead, a period of probation upon his graduation where he will be expected to uphold our laws without err. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed." The call was resounding, coming from nearly every corner of the room. There were certainly those who did not believe that Mikey should be let off so easily, and they certainly voiced it. However, they were in the minority by far.

"So it shall be done. _It was a pleasure to have never gathered here this day_."


	6. Honor Between Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Michelangelo awakens on his first day in Usagi’s realm it is to a surprising side of the ronin. Both warriors discover that there is far more to one another than either of them had ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Shudô was a samurai custom in which adult samurai engaged in pederastic relationships with younger samurai. This custom is most prominently seen, or discussed, in the Sengoku and Edo periods.}
> 
> {The older man in the relationship, known as the nenja (念者), and the younger man, known by a variety of terms including wakashû (若衆), formed a close, tight personal relationship with one another. A nenja typically engaged in such relationships with only one wakashû at a time, and vice versa. Though much discussion today, based in modern/Western social mores about homosexual relationships, focus strongly on the homosexual sexual acts involved in the relationship, shudô relationships went beyond this, and were strong personal and sentimental or emotional relationships, which involved as well strong elements of mentorship. Mentorship and training in the "warrior" lifestyle and values of the samurai was a major element of the relationship.}
> 
> {From the medieval period, if not earlier, the Japanese considered homosexual acts and relationships as simply a matter of taste or preference, and as something which simply varied from person to person, and over time. While Confucian teachings place a strong emphasis on family, and on proper relationships with one's parents, spouse, and children, there was no parallel in Japanese tradition to the biblical bans on such activities. The specific mode of shûdô male-male relationships, particular to the samurai class, emerged in the medieval period, and by the Edo period was likely seen as a firmly entrenched traditional custom.}

Michelangelo spent the last few hours of the night tucked into the cradle of two large branches where they split off from the main trunk of his chosen tree. He rouses from his trance while the sun is still below the treeline, spilling an ombre watercolor of orange, pink, and purple over the eastern sky. After emerging from his camouflage cocoon, the turtle spends a few moments just sitting up there, scrubbing away the gummy residue his period of not-quite-sleep has left in the corners of his eyes and appreciating the lovely sight.

It takes him a moment to remember where he is, that this isn't Earth - or at least, not the same Earth he has always known. It's a spooky thought but also a blessing, because at least he isn't alone anymore.

He pulls out the spikes which had secured his little tent to the tree before rolling the thin, waterproof fabric into a tight and tidy bundle. He has done this so many times now that it scarcely takes thought, his hands going through the motions mechanically. He stows the spikes and tent into his pack.

Mike is in the habit of sleeping in his leathers lately, for the sake of convenience and swift readiness, as there is always a chance he might wake to find himself in a dangerous situation. This means getting dressed involves nothing more than fishing his mask out of his bag and tying it on.

Next it's time to begin his usual morning routine of stretches and exercises, finding a thinner, more appropriate branch to grip for pull-ups and leg lifts. Then he moves to a thicker limb for some upside-down sit-ups, his strong legs hugging the living wood with ankles locked together. After a few sets of this he pulls himself upright again to sit atop the branch, catching his breath and enjoying the kiss of a gentle breeze on the light sheen of sweat which now glistens on his freckled skin. By now the sun has hit the sky in full, chasing away all but a few of the brightest, most persistent stars.

It feels good to get his heart pumping, to work out stiff muscles and make them come alive with a pleasant burn. Mike is debating doing more, but his throat is dry. He climbs back down the tree to the place where he rested and digs his canteen out of his pack and takes a long pull of lukewarm but drinkable water. He's closer to the ground now than he had been while working out, and a strange, rhythmic sound from somewhere below reaches him.

Michelangelo leans over the branch and peers down through the sun-dappled leaves. The sound is definitely coming from the general direction of Usagi's camp. He can see both the campfire and lean-to from here, but not the ronin himself. His desire to keep working out dwindles as his curiosity grows. The soft thwacks and thumps continue steadily, beckoning, so after capping and stashing his canteen Mike slings the large pack onto his shoulders and begins to follow the sound. The turtle has become well-practiced lately at navigating treetops. He travels silently and with confidence, moving rather like a monkey as he swings from branch to branch, then leaps from one tree to the next.

Just a short while later finds the young shinobi seated in the branches almost directly over Usagi -- not the tree he has decided to beat the shit out of for some reason, but one directly adjacent. He hasn’t been seen yet, and takes advantage of this fact to openly study his new friend who is engaged in what looks to him like a rather masochistic workout. He's never seen the samurai without his kimono before, and is surprised to find how much he enjoys the view. This bunny is _ripped_ , more so than Mike had realized, with fresh perspiration making his white fur glisten and cling to a very nice set of abs. Instead of calling down, Michelangelo allows himself to go unnoticed for a time so he can openly admire Usagi.

Usagi had turned his back on the section of forest which Leonardo's ethereal projection had been mere moments before and sadly picked up the coins scattered on the ground. His pay. The sadness that he had felt upon Leo's departure slowly faded to be replaced once again with the anger that had rose within him during the conversation with the young shinobi.

He understood much of the motivation that fueled many of the decisions which Leo had made, but reducing him to nothing more than a sword for hire were the Hamato clan was concerned? It was beyond insulting. It was likely the single most hurtful thing that Leo had ever done to him, including breaking up with him then not speaking to him for two damn years. He tossed the small pouch into his satchel, determined to never look at the damned coins again and took the rice off of the fire before it burned.

He was so angry at this point that he could barely see straight. While he was incredibly insulted by being hired on by Leo, he always took his employment incredibly seriously and knew that in this state he would be of very little use to his charge. He needed to get his frustration out.  
So it was that Usagi found himself training far harder than he normally would this morning. It had begun with extensive stretching, push ups, sit ups, his katas, practicing each well rehearsed step and form with his daisho. He found himself overheating so the rabbit shed his kimono and haori, leaving him in his hakama as he decided that one tree in particular was his mortal enemy.

It was not uncommon for him to practice kicks and punches using trees as his target, it had certainly taught him to handle the reverberation of blows astoundingly well over the years, making targets of flesh seem like little more than child's play. But this morning he did so with undue furiosity, growling and baring his teeth with every swing.

_I should have told him to find another lackey. I should not have agreed to this fool's errand. What care I for the fate of his whelp brother if he cannot even do me the decency of treating me as his equal? What care I for his tribunal? What care I for the whole damned ninja clan?_

He knew even as he thought the words that they were bitter, fueled by rage and not what was in his heart. In truth he had grown quite fond of the entire Hamato Clan during his friendship with them. He had agreed to aid Michelangelo out of the kindness of his heart and a desire to see his friends safe above all else. But letting himself think those harsh thoughts helped him feel better in the moment.

It seemed like quite some time later that he finally took a small reprieve from his brutal assault on the juvenile tree, pulling away with his chest heaving as he caught his breath, fur clinging to him awkwardly with sweat and the slightest traces of crimson blood shining through the white fur of his knuckles.

He flexed his fingers a few times to aid in returning feeling to the digits, wiping away the angry tears that had betrayed him and begun to fall as he pummeled the sapling. After a few deep breaths the ronin let out a fierce snarl and resumed his assault, no longer in the graceful form of training but rather blow after furious blow, completely disregarding the resulting pain.

At first the terrapin in the trees very much enjoys watching the rabbit warrior, while it still seems he is just going about a morning workout as Mike himself had done. There is beauty and precision in the way he moves, and for a time he can pay attention to nothing but the grace and obvious skill of the ronin, and the way his muscles shift and flex.

Mike is slow to grasp the obvious at times, doesn't always pay attention to the right things, but that does not make him completely oblivious. He is still a good ways up, yet Usagi's growls begin to reach his ears, and the look on his face starts to look less like focus and more like fury. He shifts where he sits, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. The longer he watches, the clearer it becomes, how not okay Usagi is right now. Still, it seems intrusive to disrupt such an intense and emotionally charged session.

_God, look at his hands. He really should have wrapped them._

He is relieved when it appears that Usagi is done, as well as vaguely ashamed of himself. It seemed a harmless thing to spy on the attractive samurai while he trained, but now Mike feels he witnessed something very private, something Usagi probably would not have revealed to him, because they don't know each other very well yet. The turtle puffs his cheeks and blows out a slow breath before glancing around -- scanning the ground first, then the surrounding trees. He's thinking maybe he should backtrack through the trees, then re-approach from the ground.

That's when Usagi starts up again, even more savage than before. The youngest Hamato's blue eyes snap back to him, wide with surprise as he mutters under his breath, "Oh, _hell no_..."

His chagrin over accidentally intruding on the samurai’s privacy is quickly drowned in a flood of concern. He leaps straight down, catching himself with both hands on one of the lowest branches of the tree he's in. Using the momentum of his fall, Mikey feels the rough bark sliding under his palms, waits as his body swings down, then forward, then up again. He times his release so that he launches back into the air and lands right behind Usagi in a matter of seconds, before he even has time to consider the consequences.

"Hey, hey, hey...!" Michelangelo protests, coming tentatively closer and flashing both palms in the universal gesture for 'I mean no harm'. It probably seems to Usagi that he materialized from thin air without a whisper of warning, in that annoying way that ninja always seem to manage.

Even now, he's on high alert for dodging a swing or a punch from the samurai. He's had plenty of experience at confronting and calming down enraged individuals thanks to growing up with a brother like Raph. Being attacked is a very real possibility, so he tries to look harmless and follows immediately with humour. "I get it, man! That tree has got to be the _biggest_ asshole. But, let's be done now. I think he learned his lesson."

Usagi had no warning of Michelangelo's approach. Even had he not been so engrossed in his savage attack on the tree trunk he would have been hard pressed to note the shinobi's graceful descent through the trees. However, the turtle's landing was caught by his keen ears before the voice sounded behind him. He spun round on his heel without missing a beat, his bloodied hands still raised in fists before him.  
  
His breathing was still heavy, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but Miyamoto Usagi was a skilled enough samurai to hold himself back from lashing out, even when startled by the young ninja. The anger that he felt began to dwindle as Michelangelo chastised him in what seemed to be an attempt at humor. It was replaced instead by an emotion that the ronin did not often feel.

_Sheer embarrassment._

He stood before the lad whom he had just been hired to protect half naked, covered in sweat, knuckles bleeding, with an obviously tear streaked face. This was certainly not the first impression that he wanted to make as Mikey's protector. There was no real way to hide the lapse of calm nor the weakness he had just experienced.

He reached a paw up and wiped away the tears from beneath his eyes with the pad of his thumb and took a deep, if somewhat ragged breath. He did not acknowledge what had just happened, rather he responded with a breathless, "Ohayou, Michelangelo-sama."

The bent down, grabbing his haori off the ground and shook it free of dust before putting it on, using the action as an excuse to avoid immediate eye contact. "There is... I made breakfast. Back at camp. It should still be warm."

Really this wasn't the first impression Usagi made on Michelangelo. That happened a decade ago. He was only fourteen when he and his brothers were first pulled into this alternate reality and enlisted to help protect an innocent village and a Splinter doppelganger from a ninja clan's attack. It had been an exciting experience for him, like being plucked from his sheltered underground existence and thrust into the pages of a fantasy adventure. Thus far, the yojimbo has only shown Mikey two faces: a bushido bunny badass and a serene, well-spoken friend.

Maybe they don't even know each other well enough to be considered _friends_... He is Leonardo's good friend, to be sure, but so far he and Mike have been friendly acquaintances at best. Up until now Mike has thought of Usagi as being rather similar to Leo in both their interests and demeanor, but just now he was acting a lot more like Raph -- or perhaps even like Mike himself, in those rare times when grief and rage pushed him past his breaking point.

Now he has seen a new face of Miyamoto Usagi, one of anger and vulnerability, sadness and shame. It was impossible to notice from a distance, but now that they are face to face he can see that the fur on his companion's cheeks is too wet for perspiration to be solely responsible. Michelangelo's heart goes out to the ronin, though he is still not sure what to say other than, "Domo arigato..."

He doesn't move immediately for food, standing awkwardly while Usagi puts on his undershirt. It seems foolish to wish him a good morning in return, when he is clearly having the opposite.

"So, like... I dunno what's going on, but uh..." Mike is still at a loss for words, but he knows what he would want if he was this upset. He darts forward and tries to put his arms around Usagi in an impulsive hug.

Usagi is not typically a person who hugs, in fact, he very much values his personal space and very few people have been allowed to violate the imaginary bubble he kept around himself. The ronin could actually count the number of people who were allowed to hug him in his adult life using only the fingers on his four digit paws.

So it was a surprise indeed to have his young companion launch himself forward and wrap his well toned arms around the rabbit's body. The turtle was taller than he was, nearly by a full head, so Usagi's face was pressed against the shinobi's shoulder as his body went rigid from the surprise of the intimate contact. His hands were held open, awkwardly hovering on either side of the terrapin.

He was about to pull away from the hug and brush off the attempt at comfort as wholly unnecessary on Mikey's part when something caught his attention. It was subtle, but it was certainly there. The way that Mikey smelled... There were surface smells that were all wrong, they should smell like jasmine tea and sword oils, but beneath that... the smell of soft leather and reptilian skin.

Usagi was almost surprised at himself when he returned the embrace, pressing his forehead firmly against the shinobi. The smooth yet pebbled skin of Mikey's shoulders beneath his paws was far cooler than his own, a feeling that Usagi had sorely missed. And that smell... the ronin took a few deep breaths which could have been interpreted as an attempt to re-center himself after his emotional display, but truthfully he was letting himself disappear into the ether of memory for a few brief moments.

He did not let it last long, too soon he was backing away from the embrace and putting some much needed distance between he and Mikey. The samurai did, however, place a hand on the shinobi's shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. "Arigato gozaimasu, Michelangelo-sama... come, my friend, you should eat before it is time to face today's road."

For a moment, it feels really good to be holding someone. Michelangelo figures Usagi must need it too, or he wouldn’t have allowed it. But after just a few beats, Mike can tell he is causing the ronin some discomfort by the stiffness of his frame, the sudden sense of tension, and... more.

_Oh, no._

_No, no, no, not now._

But of course, as much as he would like to stop now that he’s realized he’s doing it again, he can’t. He still doesn’t know how! In fact the problem becomes worse, the link between them solidifying even more than before now that he’s aware of it, focused on it.

It doesn’t help that Usagi is feeling so much right now. All that close contact makes it easy. It would be so easy to feel everything.

He should have known it was a dangerous situation, but he didn’t even think! Leo’s always pointing this out, his impulsiveness, his inability to plan for things, to pay enough attention to anticipate and act accordingly, and it’s all true. He saw the tears, saw the way he was tearing up his hands and going mental on a tree. Of course Usagi would be full of pain and spilling it everywhere.

The pain he expected. It’s the longing that surprises him. It seemed for a moment that Usagi was going to pull away, and already Mike was wondering if maybe that would be for the best, but he doesn’t want to jerk away and act weird all of a sudden, afraid to be caught on a gut-reaction level. After all, Leo has yelled at him for this SO many times now. He knows it is wrong, but since he can’t seem to stop he has been conditioned to hide it.

He tries to think about the wrongness instead, the importance of privacy and boundaries, but these have always been alien concepts to Mikey. Scrapping that, he makes a brief attempt to picture some kind of glowing force field around himself. That worked exactly once during their training sessions. For some reason, he keeps thinking about Leo. He tries to work with that. He can recall perhaps as many as a dozen variations of Leonardo’s lectures on this topic, everything from patient explanations to heavy-handed punishments and shouting. Some of these are painful memories, but he would still rather focus on them than how very badly Usagi misses someone.

The worst moment is not actually the hug but the shoulder clasp. There is no separation of fabric now, and that touch of Usagi’s paw on his skin, the shift of the ronin’s focus to him instead of bittersweet memories, opens the floodgates and wipes all of Mike’s prevention techniques from his mind.

His mouth works and his huge blue eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t let them fall, averts his face quickly, ashamed. _Play it off, don’t be weird!_

“Sama?” he latches onto this instead. He forces himself to look Usagi in the face, flashes a smile that looks very natural. His glassy eyes still betray him and he speaks a little hoarsely at first, but it clears up quickly as he continues, “Yo, I don’t follow. Is it my turn to be the teacher already? Cuz’ I don’t got shit for you. Not a lesson plan, nothing.”

But he knows. He didn’t mean to. But he knows someone has broken Usagi’s heart.

Usagi raises a brow as he looks on at his young companion. The expression is hard to read at first, but the ronin certainly does not miss the tears welling up in Mikey's eyes. It would seem that he was not the only one who was having a hard morning. It suddenly dawned on him that perhap the hug may not have been entirely for his benefit but perhaps Michelangelo had simply needed the embrace as well.

He released his grip on Mikey's shoulder and picked up his outer kimono, throwing it over one shoulder before he looked back to the shinobi before him. He gave a sad smile to the lad and replied, "No. You are not my teacher nor am I yours, though circumstances seem to have changed. I am your yojimbo. It would seem that I was not enlisted as a friend to aid you but rather as a sword for hire."

"What?" Michelangelo's eyes grow large with shock and dismay. "That means bodyguard, right? When... why would you be..." Suddenly, he knows the answer. " _Leo_ ," he growls through his teeth with surprising venom. His eyes narrow. "He-he _paid_ you? Of course. Of course he would do something like this! I'm sorry, Usagi. I know you two are friends, but that guy is a _fucking asshole_ lately!"

He balls his fists hard enough to whiten his knuckles and stalks off in the direction of camp. Mike's plastron is heaving with a tumult of emotion, but anger is at the forefront. He stops before he reaches the campfire, kicking the ground violently and sending up a spray of pine needles and dirt.

Mike lifts his head and abruptly shouts at the sky, "DO YOU HEAR ME, ASSHOLE? I can take care of myself! I don't need a fucking _yojimbo_ , Leo. What I need right now is a _friend_!"

He bows his head and lets his shoulders sag in defeat.  
  
Usagi watches silently as his charge stalks towards camp, kicking the ground fiercely and shouting to the heaven's, cursing at his older brother. The ronin bent down and picked up his kimono from the ground and tossed the thick material over his shoulder as he followed the turtle, unable to blame the youth for his outburst.

He hated to admit it, but Michelangelo's description of Leo's behavior truly seemed to hit the mark, for the ronin in far more was than what he had let on. After all, Michelangelo did not need to know about the troubles that he and his previous lover were facing. He was sure that Leo had already told his family of the dissolving of their relationship all those years ago and he did not feel the need to bring up the past.  
  
In truth, Usagi had never spoken to anyone about his relationship with Leonardo. The shinobi had asked him for discretion on the subject until he found the right way to tell his family, so the ronin had remained quiet even to this day.

Usagi let out a deep sigh as he took up the place next to Mikey and looked up at the young warrior, “I do want it known that I agreed to help you beforehand, Michelangelo-sama. _As your friend_. I did not ask for pay, nor did I want it. If it had been possible I would have given the coin back to your brother…” His gaze drifted to the flames which were dancing low in the fire pit at their feet and he quietly added, “I did throw them at him. But seeing as he was _not really there_ it was merely for dramatic effect.”

There is a moment when Mike turns to face Usagi and gives him a surly look, mostly as he thinks to himself: _If you agree with me, then why are you still calling me sama?_

But he lets it go. It's just a stupid name. He gives things stupid names all the time, after all. It doesn’t mean anything. Besides, what Usagi goes on to say next really captures his attention. He pictures the two of them facing off, pictures Leo being an ass, devaluing their friendship and offending Usagi so badly that he actually _threw_ the coins at him. Maybe he threw them right in Leo's stupid, manipulative, egotistical face! Deep in his soul, Mikey secretly loves this kind drama. Especially from two such normally straight-laced, mature individuals as Leo and Usagi have always seemed to be.

" _Wow_ ," he remarks, genuinely impressed by the mental image his mind paints of Usagi's defiance, even if Leo's stupid ghost form made it ineffective. He flashes Usagi a rueful grin. "Guess you guys really _are_ like an old married couple... haha, just playing. Leo gets SO bent out of shape when I say shit like that. But I know better. Not him. Not _Bushido Boy_..."

The turtle suddenly realizes what he is saying, and to whom. _Way to go, dude! Let's bash Bushido to the face of an actual goddamned samurai. Way to make friends and influence people._

He knows he should let this go. But the realization that Usagi probably feels the exact same way as he is sure Leo must is beyond disheartening. How can they be stuck with one another for the next six months, how can he be honest about everything he is dealing with, how can they be friends _at all_ if Usagi has a problem with gay people? He has to address it, he decides impulsively. Otherwise this will _never_ work.

"I hate Bushido," he says softly. Mike takes on a defensive, slightly humiliated posture, his arms folding and his shoulders hunching with tension. "I'm sorry, I'm sure it makes you really mad to hear me say that. But Leo, he's got all these Bushido books which are, like, SO important to him. He says he tries to live his whole life by what's inside these books. They're like his _bibles_ , basically!

"So one day, I am feeling really bummed about how me and Leo don't seem to understand each other lately, and I think maybe if I sit down and read these stupid books he's been quoting from since we were eight or nine years old, maybe I will _finally get him_ , or at least have some better idea where he's coming from. So I sit down, and I gotta do it in short bursts, right? Cuz these books are really dry, like i knew they would be, and the topics wander all over the place, and my poor A.D.D. brain can't cope. But keep working at it. I am _determined_ to read his damn Bushido books. And The Book of Five Rings actually wasn't too bad, I guess. The Unfettered Mind was confusing as hell. But that _Hagakure_ book?"

Mike is really working up a proper rant now. His face flushes with passion and he barely pauses for breath. "Which seems to be one of the most _important_ Bushido books? Like, it has a big list of rules about how you have to live your life to be an _honorable Bushi warrior_?" His arms unfold to say this last bit with air quotes, then one hand makes an explosive and dismissive gesture. "That book can fuck right off! It was all, 'A young person can bring on shame for a lifetime with homosexual acts!' and 'a good wife never meets a second husband'. Man, at one point this Shikibu dude basically comes out and says that being gay is the same as being a prostitute, and _too shameful_ for a samurai. Like being either of those things should be considered shameful!"

 _Shit_... maybe this is it. But he would rather find out about it now than after he has truly become friends with Usagi. He has to endure Leonardo's homophobic personal dogma, because Leo is his brother and Mike will continue to love him no matter what. Loving family members is non-optional, but Usagi.

He looks boldly at Usagi, or at least he certainly tries to. His voice is soft and raspy with anxiety as he demands, "Usagi-san, you don't feel that way, do you? You wouldn't say I am too shameful to be a samurai just because I'm gay?"

Usagi continues to look into the flames at his feet as Michelangelo begins to speak, completely missing the look of contempt that he was given for the continued use of the honorific attached to the shinobi’s name. When Mikey goes on to say that he and Leo are like an old married couple a small smile begins to form at the corner of his mouth.

He very nearly says “ _We used to be.._ ”, but the thought is cut short as Mikey’s train of thought is continued.

_“Just playing. Leo gets SO bent out of shape when I say shit like that. But I know better. Not him. Not Bushido Boy..."_

It felt as though he had been doused by cold water for a moment. Not only was it obvious that the turtle beside him had never been told of the truth of his relationship with Leonardo, but so too was it clear that the sword wielding ninja showed open disdain for the lifestyle which he had lead with the rabbit. Enough so that his brothers thought him to be against it all together. Was Leonardo truly so ashamed of himself, and in turn ashamed of Usagi that he had felt the need to put on such airs through all of these years?

He remained silent, trying to gather his thoughts before addressing the boy. If it was that Leo detested this way of life so much that he would lie to those he cared most dearly about, the samurai would respect that. He swore then and there that he would not be the one to betray the truth of Leo’s façade to his family. However, he also knew that he would never forget the sting of being someone’s dirty secret.

He turned to look at Michelangelo as he went on to explain his own contempt for the practices and teachings of Bushido. The rabbit’s brow furrowed further with each sentence that came from the youth’s lips until he wore a look of utter bewilderment at the messages that his companion had gleaned from the books he had read.

The boy looked at him, he could see the fear in his cerulean eyes and hear the subtle shake of his voice. He tried to mask it, but it was obvious that this was a topic that the shinobi had played very close to the chest and the answer was extremely important to him, _"Usagi-san, you don't feel that way, do you? You wouldn't say I am too shameful to be a samurai just because I'm gay?"_

Usagi shook his head, not only in answer but also to dispel his own turmoil. Now was not the time to focus on the hardships that he was facing in his own life. Right now, his focus needed to be on Michelangelo, who had just exposed himself to the samurai in a way that, he would guess, very few had seen.

“ _No, Mikey_. I do not think that you are shameful. Not in any sense of the word. Nor do I think that your preferences should deter you from any path you so choose, whether that be a farmer, a samurai or anything in between.”

He let out a heavy sigh and fully turned his body to face his companion and gave a soft chuckle, “And I think that you may have misinterpreted some of the messages in your books. Bushido does not teach that relationships with the same gender are shameful. It teaches that all relationships can bring shame to a samurai, that is, if the samurai puts that relationship above his loyalties to his lord.

You see, loyalty to your lord is the highest responsibility and privilege of a samurai. Having a romantic interest or family can… compromise a warrior’s priorities. That is what will bring dishonor to a samurai, not who he chooses to take into his bed.

As far as those relationships are concerned it is actually quite common practice for a samurai who is teaching another the path of bushido to take their student as a lover. In these relationships both warriors are able to _meet their needs_ , then continue on with study without the risk of a child becoming involved and taking the warrior’s attention away from their learning.”

Usagi dropped his gaze to the ground between their feet and brought a paw up to rub the back of his neck. He had sworn to himself that he would not betray that Leonardo lived that lifestyle, but he would no longer lie about himself. “My friend, if I thought that you were too shameful to be a samurai because you are ‘gay’... _I would have to hold the same opinion of myself._ ”

“Wow,” Mike murmurs, looking half-dazed by the news, “ _For real_...?”

His eyes are wide and staring, looking Usagi in the face for several beats before he turns his face away to gaze at the trees in silence. He peeks back at the ronin once, then looks ahead again. His eyes are awhirl with his many thoughts, trying to accommodate this new information into his rapidly expanding world view. “I did try to ask Leo about it once. You know, directly? Oh, man, it took me so long to work up the nerve!” He bows his head and gives it a tiny shake. “He blew me off. Not right away, but he looked hella uncomfortable at bein’ asked at all. So he puts on his wise instructor voice and he goes, 'Well, it was a very different time, Mikey. Not everything in the Hagukura is going to apply to you, or any modern-day ninja for that matter.’

“And I’m all, ‘hold up, what do modern day ninja have to do with anything?" Mike has gone into high drama mode for all of this bit, gesticulating and shifting his voice for comedic effect. “We are talking about samurai, bro! We are talkin’ ‘bout, what if there’s a fabulous, super twink samurai, and he’s all, ‘How do I Bushido? Shit, I dunno. I better go read this helpful book.’ And suddenly, WHAM! He’s getting _gay bashed_ , dude. From his _own fucking book_!”

With both hands still lifted in appeal, Mike seems to run out of drama all at once. He drops his hands and looks at the ground like he’s suddenly forgotten his lines. “I was clowning around,” he confesses. “I didn’t – I didn’t know how not to, right? I was so fucking nervous. I really thought that would be the day. We would start to talk, and he would awkwardly answer, and eventually he’d think to go, ‘Mikey, why did you even bring me this part? Why do you care about these young gay warriors who don’t know how to be honorable, and I’d be like, well, Leo...” Mike trails off and is silent for a beat, gazing off into the trees. His shoulders gently lift and fall. “That’s kinda where I’m at right now.”

Mike’s eyes flick aside to check in with Usagi’s before falling away quickly. “I just thought, maybe if we could laugh about it. Crack a smile, maybe? Hell, if he coulda just told me what that shit means like you just did... God! It seems so long ago since that even happened! All that time. Maybe we coulda been fine all along.

"But instead, he just wants to know... do I think this is a _joke_? Can’t I be _serious_ about anything? But I was serious. It was a hella serious thing I was trying to say to him. But he’s just like, 'I don’t feel the need to defend my personal credos to you, Mikey,' and that's it. He got up and left.”

His voice has gone scratchy as he says, “Usagi-san?” He swallows hard and squints a little. “Maybe... maybe you _are_ the best person to help me.” Another glance over, but his gaze holds this time – holds tentatively, like it still wants to dart away. “But can we not be _samas_ , please? Can we not give a single fuck about Leo and his stupid money and can you just be my one true friend in this world, please? Maybe just pal around for the next six months or so, and we can try not to die, and waste a bunch of Leo’s money? The more irresponsible thing you can find to spend it on, the better, man! He _totally_ hates that.”

The ronin stayed silent as Michelangelo let open the floodgates of secret that he had kept for so long. He did not want to interrupt at any point, not only because he felt it prudent to let his companion get this off of his chest but also because the conversation was steadily edging towards treacherous waters for the samurai.

All of the revelations which were brought to light about Leonardo's behavior when faced with this information were troubling for him in more ways than one. Not only did he find it terribly irresponsible to not impart full disclosure of sacred texts that a pupil was inquiring about due to one's personal relationship with the information therein but it also brought to his attention that there had been perfectly reasonable opportunities presented to his youthful lover to make their relationship known to his family.

Even if the shinobi had taken the path of saying that he had simply become the ronin's wakashu during the duration of tutelage that he had undergone in Usagi's world it would have felt less painful than being treated as something so easily dismissed. Though, in truth, being seen as a nenja rather than a lover would have held it's own keen sting.

One thing was certain, the next time he spoke to Leonardo the shinobi would not escape the encounter without speaking to these points. _Leo owed him that much_.

Usagi held Mikey's gaze, regardless of the tense nature of their conversation, being truly honored to be the one that the lad opened up to even if they had never been the closest of friends. The young turtle's request to drop formality between them brought a sincere smile to his lips, after all, it was he who had the previous evening plead a very similar case to Mikey regarding the use of honorific titles where he was concerned.

He nodded briefly before he softly replied, "Hai. It would be considered an honor to be your friend, Mikey-san. I will do my utmost to not dwell. Your safety while you are in my care still remains my highest priority, however that was true from the very moment that you arrived here."

He glanced at his pack which remained within the shadow of his lean-to. Within it was, at the moment, more money than he had in his possession at any point in his adult life. He chuckled solemnly and added, "Honestly, my friend, though it is true that frivolous spending of the coin would be somewhat satisfying and we may find a time for it, I would like to forget that I have that money."

“Hell yeah, man!” Mike enthuses. “What money? Who needs it?” He is so very cheered to learn that they can be friends after all. He had psyched himself out pretty quick over this notion that Usagi might have some problem with his sexuality. Now he is just so relieved to have been proven wrong – to hear that it is not a problem, in fact, but something they have in common!

If Michelangelo had been forced to stay closeted with Usagi, he wouldn’t have been able to go into detail at all about all the really heavy shit he’s been dealing with. He has needed to talk to someone about what happened to Danny for so long now… but now is not the right time. For now, it’s just so heartening to know that it is suddenly possible.

“Sooo… you mentioned something about breakfast earlier, I’m pretty sure.” Mike is already crouching down in front of the small fire, and curiously peeks into a likely container to see what is going on inside there. “And I want to hear all about this first town we are going to!”  
Usagi nodded as Mikey crouched down to into the pot he had set beside the fire. It only contained rice, but it was better than beginning the day on an empty stomach. The ronin made his way over to the pack by his meager bed and dug inside, finally procuring a small clay bowl and chopsticks.

When he returned to the fireside he set the dish by Mikey and stood next to the young terrapin. "I know that it is not much. Your presence comes at a time when I have been away from towns for a stretch and have been unable to restock my supplies. However, we can forage for something more substantial for our midday meal as we travel. It will be a good opportunity to teach you about some of the edible plants in this region."

He put his heavy kimono on, draping the article around himself before he sat down beside his companion and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well, it is a larger city called Niigata that we are making our way towards. It is on the coast, so fishing is the primary economic pursuit but there are a great many farms and rice fields on it's borders.

Niigata is one of our main port cities, so merchants gather there to sell their wares. It is home to some of the finest leather smiths and artisans in our land, without heading inland towards the Capitol. I doubt that it will be hard to find work there."

Mike quirks a smile and makes no complaint whatsoever about the breakfast. He gives Usagi an informal Japanese bow before taking up the clay bowl. During the first half of his training period Michelangelo was only able to make his rations last for the first two months or so. He was eating what he felt were very conservative portions by his usual standards. For a time after that happened, he got to know what it felt like to be really hungry. Or maybe it's better to say he and hunger became reacquainted to an extent which he has not felt since the leaner months of early childhood.

"Niigata," Mikey repeats the name in order to help secure it in his fickle memory. He is quiet for a time, bringing the bowl closer and using the chopsticks to shovel a few clumps of rice into his mouth. As he chews and swallows, he is trying to imagine their destination as Usagi has described it, riding up through a patchwork of cropland, the green stripes and sky-colored pools of rice paddies hugging the contours of the hills. He pictures the sound and feel of wooden docks creaking under his feet, the masts of ships interrupting the horizon in the direction of the sea, and oh, man, a marketplace! Mike can't even dream up a good image in his mind for what this might be like. His brain is stubbornly showing him Khajit sitting cross-legged on blankets with shady goods spread in front of them, and then a bunch of colorful tents and stalls like something straight out of Agrabah, with people haggling and calling out to advertise their wares, and... yeah, it's probably not going to be anything like that.

"What kind of work, do you think? I dunno what kind of work you do besides guard people."

Usagi gave a brief shrug in response to the question. In truth he never really knew what kind of work to expect when he went into larger cities as the demand for extra hands became so varied with the increased body of possible clientele.

"The last time I was in Niigata I was hired on to help plant rice in some of the fields after they had just been flooded for the season. It paid well enough, room and board as well as enough coin to stock my pack on the way out of town." The ronin gave a brief smile and added, "Though that was at the beginning of spring, as far as manual labor we would be more likely to find work helping with the harvest since the snows should be hitting within a few fortnights."

The pain in the rabbit's paws was beginning to cause a throbbing sensation in the digits as the rush of adrenaline ebbed, leaving the samurai flexing his fingers to try to ease some of the discomfort. He seemed to not realize he was even doing this as he continued, "It is likely that on our way out of town we can find work guarding a caravan which is heading inland for one final sale before winter upon us. I do enjoy caravan work. It gives many fantastic opportunities to meet a great assortment of interesting folk. The stories you hear are often far more rewarding than the pay."

Michelangelo 'ohs' and drops his eyes to the business of chasing some smaller bits of rice clinging to the inside of his bowl. He's trying not to let his mild disappointment show at the notion of planting or harvesting rice. He doesn't mind the thought of the midday heat or strained muscles after a hard day's work; in fact, these aspects of the job sound fairly pleasant. It's the maddening monotony of such work that concerns him more than anything, but Michelangelo is determined not to bitch and moan about it! He'll do whatever Usagi asks.

So what if he'll be the worst rice farmer they ever hired, unable to stay on-task after a couple of hours, growing so desperate for the mental stimulation of conversation that he winds up annoying all the other workers...? _No! Stay positive! I'll do my best. Maybe I can make a game of it somehow? I'll come up with something. Maybe they'll even give me a sweet rice farmer hat to wear. It would look pretty rad with my anime pants... aw, crud._

It has finally occurred to Mike that getting dressed this morning actually DID involve more than just putting on his mask. He probably shoved right past Leo's old clothes during his still-groggy quest to find it! Granted, he'd been running on auto-pilot and paying more attention to the beautiful sunrise.

The young turtle looks at Usagi and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again as he sees the ronin opening and closing his freshly damaged hands. _Ouch_! Mike abruptly gives up on the notion of eating in a well-mannered, civilized fashion that even Leo would approve of, lifting the bowl and opening his mouth to plop the remainder of the rice into it. Still chewing the huge mouthful of rice, he sets the bowl down and chopsticks down so he can shrug off the bulky traveling pack. He unzips a medium-sized compartment on the side of the bag and starts rooting around.

"Caravan work sounds pretty cool. I'm super down with meeting people and busting up caravan robbers," he remarks. By this point he has swallowed the rest of breakfast and found all the items he'd been seeking: a roll of bandages, some medical tape, and a glass jar of cream. "Hey, c'mere! Lemme help you with those hands." He selects the jar and starts to twist the lid off, then peeks up with a half grin to assure Usagi, "Don't worry. It's not _really_ Clinique Deep Comfort Body Butter. That's just the jar he decided to stick it in. Probably picked it up salvaging. Hopefully, right? I don't wanna think about the uses any of my bros might have for Deep Comfort Body Butter."

The ronin nodded at Michelangelo's comment about caravan work, but was distracted for just a moment as the shinobi pulled the items to bind the wounds on his hands out of his pack. There was a part of him that wanted to decline the offer for aide out of a desire to prevent the turtle from using any of his meager supplies on his account.

The less selfless part of him knew though that he did not have any supplies of his own on him and that it was certainly a good idea to wrap his hands to help shield him from infection. He gave his companion a nod of his head as he held out his paws for the younger male to examine, chuckling softly and said, "Arigato."

As he let the turtle go about his work he elaborated about his plans for employment, "Typically I try to only stay in large cities for a short amount of time. Long enough to earn what I need for supplies then I move on. I have found that my services are needed far more in the small villages and communities throughout the land. Many of them do not have an active militia and very often are taken advantage of by ruffians who go unchecked.

I imagine that we will not have to work long to earn the money for our supplies and we can then offer our services to an outgoing caravan. Due to this being likely the last run that many will do in this season it also means that this will be the final chance for highwaymen to pilfer goods. It is very doubtful that any merchants this late in the season would not have at least some trouble on the road."

Usagi grinned and added, "Thus, I imagine that just about any of them would more than gladly take on two skilled warriors as protection. I am sure you will get your chance to go against bandits, Michelangelo-san."

Michelangelo uncaps the jar and carefully takes one of the ronin’s injured paws into his hand. He stretches out the fingers, assessing the damage to each battered knuckle one at a time. One blunt green fingertip dips into the jar, bringing up a conservative glob of gray cream. Donatello's wound care tincture is uncolored and unscented; he doesn't waste their resources on such frivolity. It is, however, a powerful antibiotic and moderate numbing agent.

Unlike his cache of food, Mike has done a much better job of managing his medical supplies. He has a rough patch of fresh pale scar tissue on his left leg where he suffered a bad abrasion, and some was used on an injured woman who only spoke in frantic, tearful Russian, and an aggravating, stubborn old man before that who turned out to be a plant, integral to his first successful trial. As he gingerly applies the tincture to his companion's injured paw, it occurs to Mike that most of what he HAS used from this jar has been spent caring for others. Perhaps he was a shoe-in for Compassion all along.

As he works, Michelangelo occasionally peeks up with a sweet smile to let Usagi know he is listening, but he is also pleased -- pleased to be helpful, pleased to have company, and to be following someone with a concrete and confident plan. For such a long time he has been rudderless and adrift. It's such an uncomfortable feeling for him. Thanks to his ninja training, quick reflexes, and the luck which he has always had in abundance, Mike has been able to get out of most ugly situations completely unscathed. But he knows better by now than to trust his fickle whims and slipshod judgement when it comes to forming long-term plans.

"Between you and me, they won't stand a chance!" the turtle agrees with breezy confidence. By now the injuries on both hands have been treated and the fast-acting cream should provide some tingling relief. He screws the lid back onto the precious jar and picks up the gauze, measuring out an adequate amount and then tearing it into thinner strips.

"I'm just gonna tape it above and below the knuckles, so your joints are still free to move, see?" he explains as he completes the first (and most damaged) knuckle on the ronin's dominant paw. "So you should be able to use your swords with no problem, if you gotta, but... yeah." He was going to say more, but shuts up. It feels weird, telling the expert swordsbunny not to use his swords. Mike is not in charge, has no desire to be in charge, so Usagi can make that call for himself. "Also, it's not waterproof. Like, I could make it waterproof... but you'd lose flexibility."

Usagi lifted his paws to examine the binding on them, silently appreciating how the sting of his wounds had all but disappeared. The ronin set about clenching and unclenching his fists to see the flexibility of the wrapping for himself, going so far as to pull Aoyagi from its sheath, testing the hilt of the wakizashi in his paws as Michelangelo spoke to him. When he was satisfied that he had not hindered his ability to fight the rabbit looked up at his companion with a kind smile.

“It is not necessary to waterproof the wrappings, it is but a minor injury and it will head in short time. However, thank you for the offer… and thank you for helping me with the wounds. Your aide is appreciated greatly, Michelangelo-san.” He put Aoyagi back in the sheath on his hip and stood from his spot near the fire, making his way over to the spot where he had rested for the evening.

He had long since put away his own bedroll and packed his bag, wanting to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, so he merely needed to grab his pack which he brought back over to Mikey. He made sure that the pot that had contained rice had cooled and rinsed it with a small bit of water from his canteen before stowing it away in his pack.

As he swung his bag over his shoulder he could hear the faintest sound of coin from within its depths, a noise which caused, for the briefest of moments, anger to flare up within him again. But he was able to push away the feeling relatively quickly as he turned back to Michelangelo with an amused grin. “Are you wanting to put on your kimono before we begin today’s march, or would you rather do that in the nude?”  
Michelangelo WAS fully packed, but now he's got medical supplies laying around. And Usagi's latest reminder is just another reason to dig out more of his carefully stowed items.

"Argh! I know, I know...!" He flips open the pack and digs inside frantically. "I mean, okay, yeah, I totally forgot. And then I remembered! But suddenly there was breakfast, and bandages, and... so, clothes! Fuck yeah, getting dressed!" Mike fist-pumps with abundant enthusiasm. "Wearing stuff! Let's do this!"

After dragging out Leonardo’s hand-me-downs, the turtle shakes them out of tightly rolled bundles. Bundles such as these have become a habit of necessity. Space is always at a premium. He selects the "anime pants" first, as they are still his favorite part of an otherwise drab and entirely too Leo-like ensemble.

He pulls the waistband up too quickly, however. It catches on his tail, bending it backwards and up in a sharp and startling way that makes his eyes blink wide. It's only uncomfortable for a second, but he plays it up anyway with a dramatic, "Hoooooo-ahh! Actually, let's get dressed with _slightly more caution,_ amirite?" He looks over one shoulder, stretching the waist out this time and readjusting it with exaggerated flair.

"Ta-da! Pants! Cuz, y'know, social norms, and not wanting to draw attention or get a bunch of weird looks, or whatever. But... between you and me, dude?" His brow ridges hitch once, extra playful in his efforts to cheer the unhappy ronin, as he insists, "Naked is _totally_ better."  
  
The ronin watched silently as Michelangelo rifled through his rucksack, drawing out the outfit of Leonardo's that Usagi had presented him with last night. He felt the twinge of sadness mingled with anger that had become so troublingly familiar in the last day. He pushed the feelings aside almost as soon as they had emerged, not wanting to take out any of the frustration he felt towards Leo on Mikey, the lad before him now had truly done nothing to him to warrant any kind of animosity or anger.

On the contrary, Michelangelo wanted nothing more than to be his friend and companion. The both of them had just gone through an extraordinarily hard evening and each of them needed a friend, above all things.

The young shinobi had slipped his legs into the hakama, pulling it up with far more enthusiasm than what was intended, bringing a small cringe from the ronin, who knew that even a small hit to the tail of a mutant turtle indicated a far more sensitive injury than what most species would expect. The ninja shook it off with over the top humor which did bring a chuckle to the ronin’s lips. At Michelangelo’s last comment the rabbit laughed outright, shaking his head as he took a few steps towards the pile of clothes still laying on the forest floor.

He picked up the kimono and thin, lightweight undershirt, shaking any debris off of the articles before turning to his friend. “It is actually far more efficient to put on your kimono first, my friend. You will have to loosen your pants to tuck these in anyway and that drawstring can be a pain, honestly. Come, Michelangelo-san, I will show you.” He chuckled before facing Michelangelo, quickly helping him put on the two shirts, showing him how to adjust them properly onto his body. There were a few adjustments that had been made to the garments to compensate for Leonardo’s unique frame, but the ronin was familiar enough with them in order to show Mikey the intricacies of their design. Usagi finished the small tutorial by teaching his companion how to make the ichimonji knot in his obi, giving the belt the illusion of a bow in the front.

“There. You look like an authentic samurai.”

Michelangelo goes very quiet for most of these instructions. He has to quickly suppress some up close and personal reminders that Usagi is very good looking. He does his very best to keep his gaze trained to the task at hand, watching every move of those deft, well-practiced hands doing all of that tucking and lacing. The terrapin's occasional smiles become close-lipped and just a bit more muted with all these new, almost-shy stomach flutters that are interrupting his very sincere attempts to keep this shit professional. It eventually requires the old trick of parceling off whole sections of his brain in a desperate effort to keep all the crazy contained. Shy little Southern Belle Mike can go stand in some forgotten corner of his subconscious, yammering on like, _Well, hello there! I see that somebunny is very handsome and rather busy right now stuffing fabric down my anime pants. It is damn fine to meet you too, sir!_

Meanwhile, Business Mike tries to pay attention. Business Mike knows that Usagi probably doesn’t want the hassle of fixing his newbie’s authentic samurai clothes every morning, so he is trying very hard to focus. He is making orderly list in Mike’s brain, and tamping down mental post-it notes. Because samurai clothes are pretty fucking complicated. And the only way he’s got any hope of tackling this shit is to treat it like some kind of real life mini-game he is going to be playing every morning before the Furry Samurai RPG Adventure Game that is now his life can move on to the real action! You know, traversing the map with occasional interrupts for attacking bandits, and then they can hit up a town now and then to sell off loot and upgrade gear, pick up new quests! And, okay, at some point there might be some Farmville shit where he has to pick and/or plant rice. No big deal! All of this is so doable.

If Mikey can just figure out this one fucking mini-game at the beginning, the rest of life as a wandering ronin sounds like it will be a total cake walk.

“Mike the authentic samurai, huh?” the ninja turtle looks down at himself uncertainly, then spreads his arms and beams. “We’ll fool them all, right? Hah!”

The smile fades a bit. He suddenly reaches up and tugs his mask off. Michelangelo looks down at the very familiar strip of orange fabric wadded up in his fist and remarks a bit softer, “Except for this, I guess.” Impulsively he tosses it into the fire and declares, “Because a samurai doesn’t _need_ to wear a mask, right?” His blue eyes seek Usagi’s pink ones for confirmation as he adds, “They can help people right out in the open.”

Usagi had straightened himself up to look at his handiwork, making sure that he had adjusted the garments to properly drape on Michelangelo’s frame. As he looked upon the young warrior there was a certain degree of sadness. The almost ritualistic routine of dressing Michelangelo was one that he had gone through many times with Leonardo in their time together, not because his former lover did not understand the garments but rather because it had become somewhat of a game between them. Usagi would dutifully adjust this kimono as Leonardo would make playful quips with just the slightest edge of suggestion.

While there was sadness, he could not suppress the small smile which tugged the corner of his mouth at the sight. He was pulled out of the train of thought as Mikey spread his arms wide, taking in the vision of his new garments in the morning light. His playful comment brought a chuckle from the ronin who had nodded his approval. The shinobi before him could certainly pass as a samurai to all but the most trained on the matter.

The ninja’s next actions are... troubling for him. He watches silently as the terrapin removes the small strip of vibrant cloth which served as his mask. The first troubling thought that crosses his mind as his companion throws the cloth into the dancing flames is that the mask had long since symbolized a bond with the turtle’s family. The masks were truly a part of each warrior and the fact that Michelangelo would so willingly destroy that connection with his clan spoke volumes about where he believed that he stood among them.

More troubling to him was when Mikey looked up at him, cerulean locking onto amaranth. Without the mask… he was almost _identical_ to Leonardo. His breath caught in his throat for the span of a heartbeat, his mouth very slightly agape as he looked upon a doppleganger of the warrior he had hoped to spend his life with.

It was Michelangelo’s voice that broke the momentary spell. He looked away a little too quickly, a miniscule trace of embarrassment in his voice as he confirmed, “You will find no reason to hide here, Michelangelo-san. As you say, you will be able to help people. Out in the open.”

Mike catches the startled look on Usagi’s face and already his Southern Belle is in the corner screeching protests. _Wait, wait, WAIT, honey! What have you DONE?_ He looks back at the fire and his fingers unconsciously flex in his immediate desire to reach in and rescue his mask from the fire, but it is too late. The vivid orange fabric contains enough natural fibers to ignite quickly, going molten and black where the flames have already caught.

 _Splinter made that_ , he thinks, staring blankly into the licking flames.

But who can say that he will even be allowed to rejoin the Hamato clan at this point, with Leo in charge and three trials still incomplete? He shakes off these thoughts. What will happen will happen. There is nothing more pointless to dwell on than regret.

“I think I’ll give it a try, then,” he says in a lower voice. “For real, like... a serious try. It doesn’t have to be samurai cosplay, does it?” He looks back at Usagi and clarifies, vaguely sheepish, “Uh, that means a costume. A disguise you wear mostly for fun.”

A shadow crosses his face as he slowly admits, “I don’t want to have to prove that I can be a good assassin. Not like the Tribunal is probably gonna give me much of a choice when they start pulling strings, but I – I shouldn’t have to! I already _have_ proven it. And I don’t _want_ to anymore.”

Usagi looked back to Michelangelo as the lad began to speak to him in a low and… almost mournful sounding voice. The shinobi that stood before him was so much more complex than the teenager that he had come to know all those years ago. When he had first met Michelangelo there seemed to be no greater concern to the turtle than simply having fun wherever he went and in everything that he did. But Michelangelo was no longer a child and the weight of the world seemed to press far more heavily on his shoulders than the ronin would have believed possible from his previous interactions with the boy.

He took a step towards the shinobi and placed a hand gently on his shoulder, looking at him with compassion and understanding, “Michelangelo-san… The tribunal has affected your family on every level, I have seen - to some extent- the drastic changes which its presence has caused for the Hamato Clan. I know that they are a demanding lot and their tests are not easy and very often they are not kind.”  
He let out a small sigh, tilting his head to the side as he looked at his companion, “Your training period with them has not ended, my friend. You are still in the midst of your trials. It is essential to try to complete these tasks. Your brother made that quite clear to me.”  
He threw the young turtle a playful wink and grin as he continued, “Luckily, the tests that are required for the tribunal are also essential lessons to learn to become a samurai. I think that we truly must focus on completing your trials, but I see no reason that this cannot be done in the name of bushido rather than ninjitsu.”

Relief breaks across Michelangelo’s troubled face. “Sounds good to me,” he sighs. “And yeah, Usagi-san... I hear ya. Pretty sure those other three trials are coming, man. They’re coming for me no matter what, but I won’t give up again. Anyway, Leo made it clear that giving up isn’t an option. It wasn’t even the trials themselves that drove me to come home! I mean, they are some tricky fucking bastards, don’t get me wrong. But I’m not scared of them. It was just...”

Mike makes a face and shakes his head. It’s so lame to admit, but he says it anyway. “It just felt like I was going mental, being on my own. I could barely sleep. And if I could get to sleep, I started havin’ these... these crazy dreams.”

He sneaks a quick and uncertain look at the long-eared ronin, perhaps wondering at the wisdom of going on. But then the truth suddenly spills from him, as if these next haunted words have been too long bottled.“Sometimes I’ll see Leo frozen in a block of ice, and I can’t get him out. I pound on the ice and – and he doesn’t move. He can’t move, he can’t even blink his eyes because they’re – they’re _frozen open_. But I can tell he’s watching me. I know he’s alive in there, somehow, but all he can do is watch, and there’s nothing I do can get him out. I pound on the ice. Once I – I think I even managed to summon fire, somehow. But nothing I’ve tried has even made a dent.

“There are others, too. There’s one about Don and Raph. They’re running through some kind of battlefield, except – except it’s the city. It’s _our_ city, but not like I’ve ever seen it. Cars are exploding and shells are dropping out of the sky. There’s all this debris they gotta climb over, like barbed wire and pieces of broken building and shit. Don looks like he is already hurt, like... like his strength is about to give out, and Raph just has to keep shoving shit out of the way and doubling back for him and dragging him and all these bombs just keep on falling... I don’t even have a form in this dream. I can’t scream at them to look out. I can’t affect anything!” His eyes widen, but he’s not looking at Usagi anymore. He’s rubbing the suddenly sharper autumn chill from his arms and staring off into the trees. “I couldn’t get it out of my head that – that maybe everybody _needed me_. Like, like maybe they were gonna be royally screwed by something if I wasn’t there to help. But when I did go home, everyone was fine! They were mostly fine. I mean, Don was acting spooky, and Leo’s still a fucking jerk, but everyone was alive, y’know? And according to Raph, the city’s actually been peaceful!”

“So... so I guess it didn’t mean anything.” He looks at Usagi and gives a weak laugh. “Maybe you think I’m crazy now. Maybe that’s all it is, I just went crazy with loneliness.”

The ronin had stood back, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully as Michelangelo explained his dreams to him. As the descriptions became more frightful the rabbit’s brow knit uncertainly. When the shinobi had finished his tale Usagi folded an arm across his chest, stroking the tuft of fur on his chin thoughtfully as he digested the information he had just been given.

After a moment his amaranth eyes flicked back to the young warrior, he shook his head slowly and responded in a pensive voice, “No, my friend. I do not think that these dreams make you crazy, nor do I think that following an instinct you had about the wellbeing of your family makes you crazy.”

He thought about how to word his next response carefully, not wanting to come off as some sort of zealot, “Here, in my land, it is often believed that the gods speak to us through dreams. They tell us much about the world around us and give us insight on things that we may have never seen on our own…

It is possible that the gods were telling you much about your brothers, but being in danger in a dream does not always mean that one is in danger in the waking realms, that is just the most efficient way for the urgency therein to be told, you see?

You perceive that your brothers are in danger, perhaps it is up to you to interpret the actual danger they are in, keeping an open mind that messages from the spirits are quite often metaphorical in their delivery.”

As the ronin spoke he had begun to kick dirt onto the dying flames in their firepit, knowing that the sun was steadily creeping across the sky and they had to get onto the road soon if they wanted to make any headway in their journey, especially seeing as they would have to forage for their meal within a few hours. He looked back to Michelangelo with an apologetic smile as the smoke from the smoldering embers dissipated in the air. “I do hope that I have helped, though I understand that not always can the words of another help to ease one’s mind about such things.”

“Metaphors from the _gods_ , seriously?” That’s kind of a spooky thought. Michelangelo has always been someone who is irreverent and generally disinterested in the whole topic of religion. Contemplating the gods is more Leo’s shtick. Hell, even Raph wonders about Heaven and Hell more than he does – though historically it takes extreme circumstances or severe inebriation to get him talking about it. “Like, I’m getting messages from the big turtle pond in the sky? Well, _there's_ a relief.” He’s joking, though as soon as he says it Mike realizes that maybe Usagi won’t realize that. He presses his hands together and intones, “O Great Turtle who art in Heaven! I am but your humble prophet. And... Look, buddy. I'm gonna be straight with you. Well, not really. But the point is, I’m totes glad to work your will on Earth and all. But from now on, can you please just send me a text or something? Blessed be thy name, Amen!”

Michelangelo snickers and shakes his head. Clearly he does not expect his prayers to be answered. He starts gathering up the loose medical supplies and tossing them back into his bag. He’s rolling back up some of the gauze that came free of its coil, though the terrapin’s posture suddenly straightens and he looks back up at Usagi when thought occurs to him. “Hey! If my dreams ARE the work of some asshole gods from my universe, maybe that means they’re finally gonna stop! Whole different universe, right? So, there’s probably a whole different set of gods!”

He goes back to rolling the gauze up, mumbling under his breath, “Holy shit, man... I oughta try to sleep for _real_ tonight.”  
  
Usagi was actually quite taken aback by the young shinobi's reaction to his words. He knew that not everyone placed their faith in the Gods or their will, but he has certainly not expected such a blasphemous display from his companion. For a brief moment he hoped that the presence of the Gods was as ludicrous an idea as Michelangelo seemed to think it was, lest he incur their wrath for his disrespect.

However, the veteran warrior would not let the disbelief of the turtle to sway his own faith. He personally had always found comfort in his personal relationship with the gods. Normally, he would hold firm that it was not his place to push this any further, but as Michelangelo was wanting to follow the path of Bushido, there were a few more words he could not hold back on the topic.

The ronin let out a small sigh before he focused his amaranth gaze onto the turtle, "Michelangelo-san... I will not tell you to alter your beliefs, you may chose to live your life in denial and even resentment of the Gods... However, I will have you know now that it is one of the fundamental teachings in The Book of Five Rings to respect the Gods. Respect them but to not rely on them.

I can see from your reaction that the topic of higher power is not one that you appreciate and I will do my utmost to not force you into such a conversation again. But I ask you, as your friend, to not show such disrespect for the Gods in my presence again."

Aw, shit. Did he just totally disrespect _Usagi_? That was never Mikey's intention, but it's the first worry that springs to his mind. All of last night and on through the morning, he had repeatedly counseled himself to rise above his troubles and be a willing, helpful, respectful, agreeable companion to Usagi. He was resolved to be all of the things which Leo thought him so incapable of being lately. He had been so determined in his conviction, and now he has already blown it.

It takes a moment for him to see past his initial panic over disappointing Usagi and consider what the ronin actually _said_ to him. Does he disbelieve in gods, or does he actively resent them? Because it seems to him that both cannot be possible. Normally he would shrug something like this off, claim that he doesn't care enough to even puzzle it out. But it's not like the existence of deities is too big of a stretch for his brain to accommodate. Michelangelo and his family have been exposed to so many insane, outlandish creatures and circumstances over the years. Their own origin, the fact that he and his brothers exist at all, is not an exception. Therefore, an automatic stance of disbelief seems rather ridiculous.

Nobody has ever confronted Mike before about his irreverence. The word "blasphemy" does not even cross his mind, because certainly no one in his life has ever employed such a word with him before. Splinter has his rituals to honor and worship the ancestors and has always insisted they must make up their own minds about what to believe in. Leonardo likes to mix up his father's practices with his own weird blend of Bushido and Buddhism and Shinto and whatever the hell else he's come across recently that happens to resonate. Their big brother is like a big spiritual snowball, just rolling along and picking up bits here and there. If it involves candles and mantras and some chance for enlightenment, oh man... you can trust that Leo is going to be ALL OVER that shit.

But Leo also knows that HE is the eccentric and the "odd turtle out", in this regard. None of his brothers needed something greater to believe in -- at least, not quite so much as Leonardo himself needed it. He accepted this about his siblings long ago, and doesn’t trouble any of them about it.

Mike stares down at his hands for a time, finally realizing that it IS resentment. It's not that he doesn't have the capacity to believe -- it's that he has been excluded. Rejected on a technicality he had absolutely no control over. Can there be any worse feeling?

"Forgive me, Usagi-san," he says in a hush, after a very long pause. "I didn't mean any disrespect to your gods. The truth is, I don't know the first thing about your gods. I don't know what they want from me, how they feel about things, what's allowed or not allowed... If there's a proper way to respect them, nobody has shown me yet."

Michelangelo's gaze had been fixed on the ground, but now his troubled blue eyes lift to seek Usagi's. He insists, "It's not even that I'm unwilling to learn all those things -- especially if the gods here... if they... if they _apply_ to everyone! I only spoke like I did, cause... well, you gotta understand what it's LIKE on my world! There IS no Great Turtle, first of all. I made all that up. Where we come from, everybody mostly just believes in ONE God. One big, strict, all powerful God -- but he's the human's God. He don't give a shit about turtles. And _mutant_ turtles like me and my bros, we weren't even supposed to exist. The word Turtle don't appear once in this God's scripture.

"Picture it, like, if all the people in your whole world... they were all just fox people, right? And all these fox people who live all around you, they mostly worship this one big and all-powerful fox God. For them to even hint that there might be other gods besides the fox god is like a _huge_ fucking sin. Now, picture that there are no rabbit people. There are still rabbits, for sure! But they are just... they don't speak. They aren't respected. They're like the fish in the sea and those cute little lizard things I seen running around, they're just _critters_. Picture every single rabbit in the world is like that. But then some magic comes along, something the fox god had nothing to do with, and suddenly just you and your tiny little family have become a whole new kinda rabbit. You're not just a critter anymore, you're a PERSON. Now and then maybe you wouldn't mind having someone to pray to. You'd like to think you even have soul. You'd probably like to know what's gonna happen to that soul when your body dies, right? When your father dies, where is he? But nobody can tell you. According to the fox god, only foxes are worthy of Heaven. All the rest is just part'a God's _bounty_. The holy book of foxes says that rabbits are a gift, put here for no other reason than to be owned and eaten and ruled over by the foxes. Could you love the fox god, Usagi? Would Bushido force you to do that?"

Mike cringes and splays his hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I'm still doing it, aren't I? I'm not tryin' ta... I just want you to see where I'm _coming from_ , if it's even possible. If you tell me that the gods here apply to all the people? To everyone who IS a person? The truth is, that sounds... I dunno, Usagi-san. The whole idea kinda blows my mind. It sounds... it sounds really fucking refreshing."

Usagi mulled over the things that his young companion was saying, while Mikey was more boisterous about his discontent, was not the first conversation he had engaged in with a mutant turtle on the topic of distress over spirituality. He tried to imagine for a moment what it must feel like to be put in a position that, by no fault of your own, you simply do not seem to fit into what is said is the grand design. To be an outsider and be unaccepted simply because of your birth- because you are different.

It sounded like a terribly lonely and unfulfilling way to view spirituality as a whole.

Being an outsider, such as he was, he could not blame Michelangelo for the resentment of the divine. He, too, might curse the Gods had he been told through his whole life that his very existence was flawed and unacceptable.

He let out a small sigh, giving his friend an understanding smile before shaking his head slowly, "I could certainly see why a rabbit would have trouble letting himself love and be devoted to this fox god, who does not teach acceptance of him - simply because of who is was and the magic that created him... however, I can see that rabbit being able to be respectful of this fox god."

The ronin spoke somewhat animatedly, making small gestures with his hands to accentuate his points has he spoke, "Showing someone or something respect does not necessarily mean that you love them, admire them or even agree with them. There is a wolf on this planet, whom I _hate_. I hate him with every fiber of my being and he hates me just as much - if not more. It is his life's goal - at the moment - to see my head on a pike. However, I still _respect_ him. I respect him for the fierce warrior he is, the clever tactician he is and I certainly respect his commitment. That does not mean that I enjoy a single moment of his company. I have no love for him and I could go the rest of my life without seeing hide nor hair of him and be content with it. But I can not want Jei in my life - and still remain respectful about it."

"Now," the ronin looked around the ground for a moment until he saw what he was looking for- a sharp stick. He dropped his pack off of his shoulders, letting it land on the ground next to the package that Leonardo had left for Mikey before he jogged a few steps to a somewhat clear space of dirt. Usagi took the stick in hand and drew a large circle in the dirt with a much smaller circle in its center and then gestured to the design as he spoke, "As for your personal relationship with the Gods as well as what you perceive other's relationship with their God is like - I was once told this by another young shinobi.

You see this large ring? It represents a room that holds all of existence. Every person in every universe belonging to every faith or path is in this room. The smaller ring in the center is a statue that represents God, Gods, magic, science, art or any type of faith that a person may turn to in order to answer the question, 'Why am I here?'. Each person views this statue from their place along the edge of the room, interpreting it how they will. But now matter how they try, from their places of comfort, from the viewpoint they had grown accustomed to- there is still the majority of the statue which they cannot see.

Unless a person is willing to move away from what they know, to look at things from another's point of view, really see another interpretation, there is no possible way to see the whole truth."

He drew a small arrow pointing towards the center ring, "This Interpretation of God may say that being a turtle is abhorrent and that nothing waits for you in the afterlife, but-" he drew an arrow at the other side of the ring "this one may interpret that turtles are truly the holiest of all creatures and should be worshipped on high." He looked up to the young ninja with a smile and a raised brow, "Who is wrong? Which of these viewpoints will you choose? Or will you chose to risk the unknown, venture forward and make your own interpretation? You can also choose to turn your back on the statue entirely. I am sure there is plenty to look at on the walls."

"Nahh... Walls are mostly boring," Mike grins, "until I get done with em, anyway. Man, that was one of the coolest religion talks I ever heard! So if we pass a shrine or something... you don't have to avoid the topic, okay? You can tell me what it means and how the people here pay respect. I probably have a clean slate here, right? So it's a good thing I've got you to show me, or I would be ticking off gods left and right."

He drops his eyes to the orange-wrapped package. Of course he had noticed it before now, vivid as the fabric is, but still had not made any mention of it. Mike had assumed it was something of Usagi's... Now, viewed side-by-side with his companion's traveling pack, he is slightly more curious about where it came from. Usagi travels so lightly, he doesn't see how it could have fit in there. Where was it concealed before? In the lean-to? It's a growing mystery, so he is finally prompted to wonder, "Whatchya got there?"

Usagi had nodded lightly at the shinobi's response and gave the boy a kind smile, glad to know that Michelangelo was not a closed minded man who was willing to listen to the viewpoint of another. It was not his job, nor intention to convert the young turtle, but the ronin was certainly relieved to know that his companion was receptive to the things he had said.

His eyes flicked towards the vividly orange package by his own pack, his eyes narrowing angrily for the span of a heartbeat before he busied himself by absently drawing on the ground with the stick in his hands. He shook his head briefly and responded, "Iie **(no)** , that belongs to you. Your brother left it for you last night... It belonged to him, but he very much wanted you to have it." his head snapped upwards as he remembered the rest of Leo's instructions to him. He had become so wrapped up in his own turmoil that he had all but forgotten everything besides the insult he had suffered at the blind shinobi's hands. He gave the turtle a somewhat ashamed glance before adding, "A thousand apologies, Michelangelo-san. He also left a message for you, which I have failed to deliver until now. He said to thank you for calling him 'sensei'. That it truthfully and sincerely meant a great deal to him."

"For all the good THAT did," Michelangelo mumbles. "He still tossed me out. Heh, literally." There is no humor in his chuckle. It is pure, distilled bitterness. " _Donnie_ doesn’t have to do any trials... I don't see why I gotta finish em. But, whatever. I guess the difference is that I already committed, yeah? Once you say you're gonna do a thing, ya gotta see it through. I guess it's an honor thing. Sometimes being honorable sucks, Usagi-san."

Mike makes no move to take the present yet. The last thing he wants is a present from Leo -- a reason to _forgive_ Leo. It feels more comfortable right now to stay pissed at him. His hands become fists as he declares, "So he _came_ here, is what you're saying. But he didn't have the nerve to say nothing to my face."

The ronin pulled his arms into his kimono, letting the sleeves hang loosely at his sides and folded his arms across his chest. The sweat he had worked up earlier now only served to give him a chill in the brisk autumn wind. Michelangelo's brief display of his dissatisfaction with his current predicament did bring other memories that had been lost In the ether of anger regarding the conversation from the previous night surfacing in his mind.

"I do not know that this is any longer a mere matter of your trials, Michelangelo-san. Your brother had mentioned having to stand before the council on this very day and advocate on your behalf. He was vague but he did make mention of some trouble surrounding you, as well as some sort of damning evidence where it was concerned..."

The rabbit shook his head briefly before adding, "From what I was able to gather it would seem that your abandonment of your trials has caused quite a stir. If I had to venture a guess I would assume that Leonardo-sama is under close watch seeing as he just recently took control of the clan. I am sure that it does not reflect well upon him that since he took up the mantel one of his subordinates has chosen to forsake ancient traditions and another turned deserter during these trials. It does not paint him in the best light as a confident and capable master of the Hamatos."

The masterless samurai let out a small sigh, "Also, he did not truly come to see me either. The package for you and the money for me were left- but I merely spoke to a projection. A spectre form of Leonardo. I have not physically seen him for the turn of over two years now... Control of your clan has kept him rather indisposed."

Michelangelo's face works to betray his many swirling emotions -- anger, hurt, and betrayal. But right now, confusion is at the forefront. "Two -- two years? That doesn't track, he - he left to see you for the kite festival thing last year..." But right now he is in the mood to believe Usagi over his brother, and declares, "Leonardo is a liar. And what evidence-- _oh, shit_."

Abruptly he tears his pack open and begins flinging items out of it. They hit the ground carelessly, the precious tins of spices, wrapped travel rations, the solar powered charger, all flung into the dirt in order to reach the journals at the bottom. It looks for a moment like the turtle has completely lost his senses, until at last his hand closes on the thin spine of a black moleskin book.

"Blank!" Mike gasps, still disbelieving. He drags out the next, and the next. "All of my journals, blank! He's switched them! He's TAKEN them, Usagi! Taken them to the Tribunal! I...I should have never let him near my bags! I never thought... why? _Why would he betray me, Usagi-san_? All my most private thoughts! He must know everything! The _Tribunal_ must know everything! Why would he..."

The book falls from numb fingers. He curls forward, wraps his arms around his head, and starts to cry.

At first Usagi had cocked his brow at the turtle's words. It would seem that Leonardo had maintained the appearances of friendship with him through the years, merely managed to disinclude him in the arrangement. He had, in fact, gone to the the Kite Festival in the Geishu Province, however only young Lord Noriyuki along with his retainers Tomoe Ame and Jotaro served as his companions. He had not seen the slightest trace of the shinobi, though he always hoped to at the festival, it was once one of their most cherished activities of the year. Nearly a decade had seen Leonardo at his side from beginning to end of the festivities.

However he had no time to dwell on any of this before Michelangelo began tearing through his pack, unearthing the journals which seemed to cause him such distress. He could not fathom what could be hidden within the pages of a boy who had barely passed his twenty-fourth year that would cause him to break down in tears. Especially when said evidence was being handed over to a clan of cut throat shinobi.  
  
Perhaps the lad was worried about the reception of his lifestyle choice by the council and by Leonardo himself. Afterall, he was quite worried about how the ronin would take that information and truly, Usagi had little sway over the boy's livelihood.

Usagi sat down next to the turtle, feeding one of his arms back through his sleeve and gripping his companion's shoulder. "I would not worry too much, Michelangelo-san... Your brother said that he was going to go defend you for whatever was in those pages. Leonardo-sama is incredibly diplomatic and persuasive. I am confident that he will be able to paint you in a good light."

"There is... there is no good light!" Michelangelo sobs. “H-have you ever... sought _vengeance_ , Usagi-san? Have you ever sought _terrible vengeance?_ Have you ever been out of your mind with it? And now... now they all know! Worst of all, Leo knows! I’ve brought war to my clan. I have _d-dishonored_ my father, I – I deserve to be cast out f-forever...”

His words after this are unintelligible. He is unable to recover from his pathetic mimicry of a turtle pulling tight into its shell.

He processed the turtle's words, slowly seeing small pieces of the puzzle falling together, yet there still were far more questions than there were answers. Regardless of what Michelangelo may have done the ronin had sworn to protect him, it would seem that he would need to protect him even from himself.

He gave his shoulder a quick shake before saying in a stern voice, "Michelangelo, listen to me. It matters not what you have done. The vengeance you sought is in the past. The master of your clan fully believes that you are worthy of redemption. If he did not believe that he would not be, likely at this very second, defending you and your actions to the tribunal. So now, it is your move, will you sit here and fret because Leonardo knows of whatever it is you have done or will you look at the blessing that he knows and has come to your defense? That he went out of his way to give you a second chance with your trials? This is your chance to repay your clan by showing them that this chance was deserved."

 _Leonardo_ thinks Mike is worthy? This seems like a ludicrous and impossible statement.

But what if it’s true? What if Leo read all of his sins and... loves him anyway? Michelangelo has an optimistic heart, and would love more than anything to believe this. And yet...

His eyes narrow and he rises off the ground, pushing up from his curled position. He scrubs his beak roughly and whispers, “If what you say is true... he could have given me a better sign of it when we were face to face. Where was all this love and devotion when he was forcing me out of that portal? It shouldn’t be this hard to understand if he hates me or loves me.”

He imagines the rough-and-tumble advice of a big brother who is far out of reach: _Geez, Mikey... get it together_.

Mike cringes once more and sniffles, but then his features purposefully smooth. He does not fall back on any of the cheap tricks Leonardo might employ to regain his calm. Mike has been adept for all of his life at schooling his feelings back into order, and sees no point in taking up habits that seem to him like a dangerous crutch.

 _Just because you can do a thing, it does not always mean that you should._ His father’s words. He can’t even recall exactly what context this wisdom came from. He’s fairly sure it was said in passing, not even a formal lesson. He’s not sure, but they might have been discussing the news.

In any case, those words have applied to his life a lot lately.

His red eyes make the blue all the more striking. They truly are a different shade of blue than Usagi’s former lover – if one looks closely, Leo’s eyes were like the sea, and Mike’s are far more like the sky.

He peeks over at Usagi, taking slow breaths that shake at first but grow calmer with each purposeful inhale and exhale. When he trusts his voice not to quake or show further weakness, he gives Usagi a small bow and declares, “Forgive my childish... outbursts, Usagi-san.” His words are grave and chosen with great care. “I will try to make the best of this second chance. Of course I want nothing more than to... to restore honor to myself and to my clan.”

Usagi gave a helpless shrug a small sigh at the turtle's first few sentences. He could certainly empathize with the boy. It should _not_ be this hard to know if Leo loves you. But it was. That is simply the way of things and the reality of having a relationship with the shinobi leader, if any context it would seem.

He looked into the tear streaked and reddened eyes of his companion and gave him a genuine smile, "There is nothing to forgive. Outburst happen to the very best of us. And it would seem that neither of us have truly been in control today."   
  
The ronin picked up the orange package and handed it over to the young shinobi. As he moved the item he was able to very distinctly smell Leonardo on it. The aroma brought with it a flood of memories, both happy and sad. He did however push them aside and instead addressed the Hamato by his side.

"I am certain that you will bring great honor to your clan, my friend. But I believe that you should open that package. Your brother took great care and great risk to gift it to you."

"I'll accept," Mike decides, and proves he was paying attention by adding, "Out of... out of _respect_ for him." Then under his breath and in a rush, he snarls, "But it don't mean I'm completely done bein' pissed at him necessarily!"

Holding all of his reasons to begrudge Leo in mind, Michelangelo unwraps the gift -- and in spite of his many reasonable and significant complaints, he melts a little. Not completely, but his scowl softens into an introspective frown as he turns the gleaming wooden instrument over in his hands.

It's every bit as beautiful as the day he shyly presented it to the rest of the family and announced the _shamisen_ was finally complete. Mike had been invited to touch it, but never to play it. Frankly he would have been daunted to do so, having curiously honed in on this project from the very early stages and witnessed first-hand what incredible laborious effort Leonardo had poured into the crafting of it.

Having never shown much interest or proclivity towards woodworking in the past, their big brother had methodically researched beforehand and reached out to Donnie for help in obtaining desirable materials. A pattern of abalone shell inlays adorn the slender fretboard of the three-stringed guitar, suggesting a twisting vine in striking blue-black and green. His desire to achieve perfection in the creation of this instrument was noticed and commented upon by all of Leo's brothers -- mostly behind his back, because none of them wanted the phenomenon to stop necessarily.

Why he never learned to play it properly is something that has always baffled Mike. Why he never so much as asked for _his_ help, when Mike has been decent at playing a guitar and has been able to read music for ages...

_Able to read music..._

Was it his brother's fading eyesight that stopped him? It's the first time the possibility has ever occurred to Mike.

Suffice to say, the young shinobi grows very quiet for a time, studying Leonardo's gift. "It really is amazing," he says at last, once he recognizes that an awkward amount of silence has stretched. "He shouldn't give me this. He put so much work into it... what if I break it? What if those bandits DO attack, and it gets smashed to smithereens?"

The thought is very distressing. As Donnie would surely attest, Mike does not have the greatest track record when it comes to accidentally breaking his most precious belongings.

Usagi had pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them as he quietly and thoughtfully watched Michelangelo carefully unwrap the instrument that Leonardo had crafted in his youth.

It was an item that he was all too familiar with, having spent many nights beside Leonardo who had snuck out of his family's home to spend evenings with him. The ronin would regale the young shinobi with tales of his doings, legends of Gods and ancient warriors, poetry from his land or simply enjoy peaceful silence by the lad's side as he tirelessly worked on his project.

It had taken him ages to finish it. The first thing he had done when he completed it was hand it to Usagi asking him to try it. Before the ronin was able to even pluck a single note it had been snatched out of his hands by his young lover who had exclaimed that it was not actually ready, drawing a chuckle from the veteran warrior.

After a few more minutes of checking strings and tedious polishing Leonardo was unable to find anything else that needed to be done. With a nervous glance the turtle had put it back in his paws. He had never been very good with the shamisen, having always preferred to play woodwinds, however he was able to pluck out the notes to a slow and tedious version of "Sakura, Sakura" quietly singing along with each note.

He had looked up somewhat bashfully from the strings, about to apologize for the first melody on Leonardo's beautifully crafted shamisen having been a clumsy excuse for a song, but the look on his wakashu's face was enough to catch the words in his throat. The shinobi appeared transfixed, his mouth curled into a soft smile and his eyes filled brilliantly with stars as he looked up at the rabbit who had served as a mentor and nenja for the turn of four years.

" _I love you, Miyamoto_..." It was the first time he had actually said it. Their bond had always been known, but unspoken, neither one willing to cross the line between the traditional arrangement they had between them though both knew that what they had was so much more.  
  
All It had taken to push them over that line was an out of tune rendition of 'Sakura, Sakura.'

He had leaned forward, cupping the shinobi's chin with his paw and whispered against the turtle's lips, " _Daisukiyo, Leo._.."

" _It really is amazing,_ "

The words snap him out of his memory and suddenly he is once again beside Michelangelo. Usagi lifted his head from his knees and smiled softly at the shinobi, "I... I am sure that you would not have been given this gift at this uncertain point in your path if Leonardo-sama was not willing to risk that something may happen to it. And I am certain that if we are attacked by bandits and the only casualty among us is the shamisen, it will be considered a success. I doubt that any hard feelings will be held against you."

“No. Just _no_ , dude. That is not success. That is not success unless you and me just whupped some bandit motherfuckers soundly, a'right? Like... if that guitar thing gets busted up the _very first time_ some rag-tag bandit punks come at us? Leo should never forgive that. I wouldn't ask him to.” The instrument sits idle in his lap in favor of shadowboxing at a couple invisible foes as Mikey enthuses, “They’re all up in your province, jacking caravans and tryna’ stick up merchant dudes or whatever... and you and me, we’re like the yojim-bros they hired to look out for these assholes! And my very first move, right? I'm like, let's fucking _slam bandits upside the head_ with my big brother’s super precious Jabanjo!” He tilts his head towards it uncertainly. “Or, you know, whatever serious name you probably got for it? It's a work in progress. My point is, that is not what success looks like. If that shit turned out to be one of my _trials_ , Usagi-san... I would get an ‘F’ on that trial. And the F would stand for Fail.”

Naturally it’s already been tuned. Leo would not hand it over any other way. The tuning pegs are huge and the strut is kind of fascinating, but he doesn’t dare mess with any of that yet. He picks the instrument up and starts plucking the three strings, trying to memorize the default notes. Each string is plucked several times in a row before he moves on to the next.

Once he’s committed these three sounds to memory, he moves on to try some lazy scales, walking his fingers up and down the fretboard, trying to get comfortable with it. The strings are more widely spaced than usual, and he has no idea what they’re made of. Not proper guitar strings, that’s for sure! It makes the instrument sound so muted compared to the battered but serviceable modern instruments he has back at the lair. There will be no elaborate chords, he won’t be shredding classic rock solos on this thing. Mike is not sure how he’s even supposed to hold the weird and equally huge triangular... strumming apparatus? Pointlessly large guitar pick? There will be plenty of time to experiment.

“Let’s see what she can do,” Michelangelo shrugs and begins to play.  
The ronin's eyes had widened at the rather enthusiastic way that Michelangelo had disagreed with him. The initial shock was short lived and quickly ebbed into wide grinned amusement as the youth continued on his tirade. It felt much better being thoroughly entertained by the maskless turtle and letting himself remember good times, forgetting for a moment the events of this morning.  
  
.. _Yojim-bros? Jabanjo?_

The silly terms were enough to draw a hearty laugh from the rabbit who continued to chuckling as he pictured, in his mind's eye, the turtle "soundly whupping" bandits with nothing more than the stringed instrument.

As Michelangelo began acquainting himself with the strings Usagi let himself fall silent once again, his amaranth eyes glancing upward occasionally to follow the sun's path as it crept across the sky, wondering at the wisdom of leaving their pre-established camp with the day already beginning to wane.

Upon his first attempt with the shamisen Michelangelo had already proven himself to be far more adept than the ronin had ever been with it, even if the shinobi had chosen to forego the use of the bachi, which is supposed to be used to strum. The melody he had begun to play was pleasant enough and he found himself wondering if it was one of the lad's own creation. He would certainly not be surprised if it were, seeing as Mikey seemed to be quite the virtuoso.

When the melody came to an end the rabbit gave the boy a light round of applause, simply clapping his hands together a few times, "That was quite beautiful, Michelangelo-san."

“Yeah, that’s from Morrowind, the Elder Scrolls… uh.” Some of the brightness in Michelangelo’s face falters. “Never mind. The explanation will probably just confuse you. But yeah, I dig it. Which... means I like it! Man, this is challenging. Like, all my favorite stuff to do back home will probably mean nothing to you.”

His grin resurfaces and his toned and speckled shoulders roll in an easy shrug. “It’s cool, though! We’ll figure it out. I bet I will be learning a whole bunch of new words too.”

Suddenly the turtle’s eyes blink wider. “New words... Japanese words. _Scrolls_ , holy shit! I can’t believe I’m only just now thinking to ask you this!”

He sets the shamisen down and crawls forward to delve back into his bag. He’s pulling out items again and rooting around hastily. Whatever he’s looking for seems to be near the bottom.

He continues to explain as he searches. “I am a lot better at speaking Japanese than reading it… like, _way_ better. I’m basically illiterate on this world.” The thought mildly troubles him, though it did not occur to him in the other countries he visited during the first half of his training. Those places were all temporary stops, whereas he knows this stay in Usagi’s Japan will be more long-term.

Finally he locates it: a small scroll, only about four inches wide and made of a parchment that looks very fine compared to anything currently available in Usagi’s world. It actually turns out to be two scrolls which have been rolled together to conserve space. He separates them and holds them both out to Usagi. “You can probably read this kanji, right? The only one I know on here is Humility. And I only know that because Leo taught it to me in preparation for my training period.”

They read:  
武  
者  
修  
行  
(Musha shugyō)  
魔  
法  
使  
い  
(Mahōtsukai)

謙  
虚  
(Kenkyo)

求  
め  
る  
(Motomaru)

“The only one I know on here is Humility. And I only know that because Leo taught it to me in preparation for my training period. Anyway, one day I found these wrapped around each of my nunchucks. Suuuper creepy, finding them and knowing some mystic got close enough to put ‘em there. I’d been real tired and slept with my gear on, right? So these ninja must’ve climbed my tree, opened my tent, slid em outta my belt to attach the scrolls, then put the chucks back in the holsters. Which, like... how?! I sleep on my plastron! Did they _roll me over,_ and somehow I slept through it? I walked around with em for half the day before I even _noticed_ …”

Suddenly he beams hugely at Usagi. He is fully aware of the irony as he bitches, “Ninjas, man! Don’t they piss you off?”

Usagi had given the lad a reassuring smile and a resigned nod as he had begun speaking. It was true that much of Michelangelo's world simply baffled him, but he had learned a great deal in the time that he had known the clan, and in his life he had always been eager to expand his knowledge. In this he found the prospects of learning what this rather eccentric shinobi might teach him quite exciting.  
  
As the turtle dove forward to search through his bag the ronin let out a soft chuckle.

_He certainly does not have a one track mind, does he?_

He held out a paw for the small scrolls which Michelangelo had unearthed, letting them fall open to reveal the delicate calligraphy.  
Amaranth eyes scanned the characters and he quietly mumbled, "Yes, they do have a way of doing that..."

After a few moments he scooted closer to the shinobi, gesturing to each set of kanji with his claw. "Do not worry yourself, we can work on your calligraphy together. That is one of the many skills that a samurai must be proficient in. As for your scrolls, this first one, Musha shugyō, that means 'warrior's path', this one 'Mahōtsukai' is 'magic' or 'magician'... 'Kenkyo' is obviously 'humility'... 'Motomaru' is a little harder to translate, but I think the best way to phrase it in your native tongue is 'seek help' or to 'enlist aide'... What do you make of that?"  
  
Michelangelo’s blue eyes grow larger. He reaches for the first of the two scrolls, demanding, “Let me see that one!” He scrutinizes the characters Usagi referred to as ‘musha shugyō’, then shakes his head and curses, “Sneaky-ass ninja mystics, they did it again! They must’ve switched the scrolls! Those are totally not the same ones. I take it back, one is the same, but it’s in a different order. Hey, I’ll show you! I copied them all down in my – ahh, hell. Heh, nevermind.” Because, of course, the journals are now blank.

He appears dejected for a moment before he looks up with a sudden idea and searches the ground around him. Snatching up the stick Usagi used during his statue lesson, he starts to sketch a character. “Okay, um... considering how many times I stared at those damn symbols, I _should_ be able to remember them. First of all, there was only three instead of four. The first one was like... it looked kinda like two humming birds flying left into the letters J and I. Like this...” He draws the kanji in the dirt. It looks worse than a child’s handwriting, and completely disregards stroke order, but it is somewhat recognizable as the character for ‘fly’.

飛  
  
“The second one looked just like this one.” He taps the final character in ‘musha shugyō’. By itself, it means ‘go’, or ‘itte’.

行  
  
“And the last one... the last one was tricky, man. It was like a sword laying on top of a gun... or it might be a stick figure with a really big dick? And there was another stick figure punching a janky cross and... and up here was some backwards letter Es or some shit? I dunno. That one was kinda crazy.”  
  
機

Usagi raised a brow as Michelangelo demanded the document from him, but simply handed the document over. He was not used to people, especially not one who would consider himself an ally treating him with such impertinence. There were of course those who treated him as a lower class citizen, seeing as he was a ronin, little more than a vagabond in the eyes of some, but for most he was still treated with the respect that one would give an employed samurai.

“ _But_ ,” he reminded himself, “ _It must be remembered that Michelangelo is not of this land. The customs and traditions here are alien to him. Certainly as alien as his world was to me on the occasions that I was able to visit it. He means well, and he will learn._ ”

The ronin leaned forward to inspect the marks which Michelangelo was scratching into the forest floor, noting that calligraphy certainly was not something that was honed for this particular warrior. While his movements were still deft and he held himself well, there was unmistakably the mark of a novice in his strokes. However, the script was legible, so thank the gods for small favors.

The words for ‘fly’ and ‘go’ are easy enough to understand, but the older warrior takes a full three minutes looking at the last symbol before he takes a finger to the dirt, erasing one or two extra lines and turning to the shinobi, “Might it have been this? It means ‘machine’ without those marks here. Though, I may be mistaken. I have no idea what a ‘fly-go-machine’ would even be. It sounds like jibberish. The message you have now seems to be far more clear.”

He opens the scrolls once again, looking them over and mumbling, “I can certainly try to teach you what I can of humility, however, the magic arts are far beyond my grasp. I have come into contact with several obakemono  **(haunts)** and yokai **(demons)** , but I typically just resort to slashing at it until it goes away. I am certainly not proficient in any sort of magic myself, not by any means.”

"So... I guess that means we gotta find a wizard? I don’t suppose you got any yellow brick roads around here... heh, never mind that. Alright, so – fly-go-machine. I actually do know what they mean by that. But it’s not even important because I guess it’s not the goal anymore, right? It was basically telling me to travel to Japan in MY world, which would require one of these flying machines it’s talking about. Y’know, since it’s hella far away and surrounded by a whole lot of ocean? Then I guess I would have to kiss a bunch of crusty mystic sensei butts until they agreed to let me back into their magic school.”

Mike flinches and scratches his arms uncomfortably. “Which I... kinda left in a huff. After telling off a buncha people. I was in a bad place. Anyway...”

He shakes his head and refocuses on the task at hand. “Tell me what ‘warrior’s path’ is supposed to mean. Cuz, like... aren’t I _already_ a warrior? I’ve been doing martial arts since I was a real little kid! Is it an _actual path_? Like, I’m supposed to go there to find some magician randomly chilling there?” He’s not exactly hopeful. After what he’s already been through, and what Leonardo reports to have endured, that sounds too easy for the likes of the Tribunal.

These flying machines that Michelangelo spoke of sounded intriguing to say the least. How could a machine move through the skies like a bird? It was seemingly impossible to him and he had many questions but bit his tongue, knowing that there would be plenty of time to inquire about these strange contraptions.

His brow furrowed in focus at the rest of Michelangelo’s tale. If he had left a school of training in disgrace then it would certainly take great humility to come forward to beg forgiveness to return to the fold. Being a successful and worthy student in any school truly took great humility. It had taken him many years to learn to be humble to Katsuichi-sensei’s lessons.

A smile formed on his lips and the rabbit shook his head in response, “If the Musha shugyō was a literal path to walk then I would be ashamed that it has taken me over a decade of walking and I have not so much as glimpsed the end of my path. The Musha shugyō is a path of learning. Expanding your knowledge and honing your skills without the protection of your sensei or family.

Many samurai walk the warrior's path in this land. Often one will expand their skills through duels, training with various schools to test their mettle, mercenary work or becoming a Yojimbo, such as myself. It would seem that your own Musha shugyō is to hone your abilities with magic…”

Usagi brought up one paw, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “Perhaps when we finally arrive in Niigata we can inquire about local shrines… though truthfully, if you are going to have to train for an extended time with one teacher it may be in our best interests to continue South to the Geishu province. I have many friends in that region and would be under Lord Noriyuki’s protection. We could make it there and hopefully find a sensei willing to take you on before the snows begin to fall.”

“Ohhh yeah! We were supposed to be _going_ somewhere,” Mike realizes. His grin turns sheepish as he surveys the ground where his belongings have been scattered hither and yon after his frantic ransacking to find the journals and the scrolls. He quickly drops to his knees and starts stuffing items back into the pack with far less care than he had stowed them previously. “I had been packed and ready to head out, I swear,” he apologizes. “I just – I got derailed! Story of my life, really.”

It’s a little tricky getting the bag to close. He really does carry around an enormous amount of stuff.

“Anyway, I’m down for where ever you wanna go! And... shit, I didn’t think about snow. We don’t go to the surface too much when there’s snow on the ground. Maybe when it starts getting that cold, we oughta revisit that conversation we had earlier about me wearin’ shoes.”  
  
As the shinobi hastily worked on packing his bag so that they could begin traveling the ronin glanced upward at the sun to note it’s path across the sky. Already the hour of the snake  **(9-11 am)** was upon them. He reached a paw forward, lifting the blank journals off of the ground and handing them back to their owner with a smile.

“I imagine that you may want to reconsider some footwear when winter is upon us. As for today, we have already lingered far longer than I would like to if we were to leave today. Perhaps we should take the opportunity to forage for some fresh fruits or mushrooms to stock our packs with and camp here again tonight.

It will be pleasant to have something other than the rice and daikon  **(radish)** I have until we get to town. I am fairly certain I saw a few plum trees about half a ri  **(3.927km or 2.44 miles)**  back up the road when I stayed here the other day… Would you be opposed to staying here another evening and heading out at first light?”

Michelangelo took the book from Usagi but did not put it away. He looks down at it with a worried frown.

 _You fucked up_ , he derides himself, _since Usagi is being too nice to mention it. Last night you were so determined to get off to a good start, you got up bright and early... just to spend all this time dicking around, talking and freaking out! Now it’s too late in the day to start traveling, all because of you..._

“Nah... I wouldn’t be opposed,” he says, quiet with distraction and lingering chagrin.  
  
Business Mike steels himself to keep his cool and rise above this latest spiral into pessimism. _Listen, he does not sound even slightly mad about it,_ he counter-argues with himself.

He dredges up a soldier’s smile and checks back in from wherever he just went, meeting Usagi’s gaze directly. “I’ve never picked plums right off the trees before. It... would be awesome to learn more about foraging grub in this world. That was something I thought I would be better at than I actually turned out to be. Because I _kind of know_ what’s what in Northampton, right? But foraging is not like Herbalism Skill in video games! You can’t just level it up and be awesome at it everywhere. When you go somewhere totally new, you gotta start learning it all over again!” He points out this last bit in a tone that is injured by the unfairness of stat mechanics in the real world.

Mike sets aside the journal he has been holding all this time, thinking it might come in handy for taking notes about what plants are edible and which ones will kill him, or – far more likely -- give him an aching gut and turn his tail into a diarrhea cannon. Not that he has a ton of regrettable experience employing blind trial and error in the wild -- none that anyone can _prove_ , anyway.

The long eared ronin met Mikey’s glance with a similar smile, nodding briefly before standing and fetching his own pack. He quickly brushed the dust off of his hakama and motioned to Michelangelo to follow in suit by jerking his head toward the path.

“I would not suggest leaving anything behind. We are barely off the road and are unable to guarantee that there will be no other passersby while we are gone.” Usagi began walking down the trail, not checking to see if Michelangelo had started following him yet, rather assuming that if the youth truly wanted this lesson he would catch up rather quickly.

“The mushrooms I would _like_ to find are called Matsutake, literally ‘pine-mushroom’. They only grow in the shade beneath pine trees and they only can be harvested in Autumn, so it is not often that I get them but they are delicious. They are quite expensive on the open market, so hopefully we can find enough to eat as well as trade for supplies in Niigata. They are brown and we only want to pick them if the umbrellas have not opened yet.”

The ronin had paused to check the base of a pine tree and mumbled, “Also keep watch for any fruit bearing trees, if we are lucky we will not have to walk all the way to the plums.”

"Oh! Uh... right!" Mike is so used to stashing his giant bag high in the trees. There are still a few items on the ground, and he grabs these up in one giant armful and stuffs them into his pack awkwardly as he jogs to keep up.

His mouth moves to shape the things Usagi just told him, trying to see it all in his mind, paints it on some canvas made of spirit: the towering pine tree, the elusive little mushrooms poking up from a red-brown carpet of fallen needles and pine cones, like so many fairy-sized umbrellas in various stages of bloom. And because we DO believe in fairies, Tinkerbell appears and uses her wand to write the word "Matsutake!" emblazoned in the evening sky so that it hangs over the pines in girly, glittering silver and gold cursive...

By the time his hand finally closes around the pen he had been searching for, he no longer needs to write it down. He will remember Matsutake forever. But there is more knowledge pouring out of Usagi, so he flips a page open and starts writing down notes about fruit trees. He's not convinced he will recognize a plum tree until Usagi points it out, and says as much. He wants to know what the leaves look like, and scribbles notes about them, and dutifully points out every bright, obviously inedible or poisonous berry they come across. A berry is technically a fruit, right? Mike is surprised to learn that birds eating said berries is not adequate proof that said berries are safe to consume. The kid must possess some remarkable karma to not have died long before now trying to survive in the wild.

The camp is well out of sight when Mike suddenly gasps aloud sharply and a terrible look of realization slackens his face. He looks at Usagi in horror. "I have to go back! I'm so sorry! I'll be fast, really fast, I promise! Five minutes -- maybe six! It's _really_ important. Please, Usagi-san. _Please wait for me_!" Mike tosses the pack off his shell, letting it fall to his companion's feet with a solid thump. Trusting Usagi won't leave his things behind. He tosses down the journal and pen as well, and takes off at a furious run, quickly accelerating to top speed. He's out of sight in just a few more moments, dodging trees like a demon and not bothering with stealth.

Did Usagi know? Was he waiting all along, wondering how long it would take Mike to realize he has left behind the precious shamisen?


	7. Wakashudo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NC-17 RATING - LEONARDO / USAGI
> 
> Life seemed so much simpler as a wakashu. Regardless of the unhealthy place it puts him, it is a time that Leonardo cannot help but remember, especially after his conversation with the ronin who was once his nenja.

They let him walk out with Mike's journals. Leonardo had expected -- perhaps even hoped -- that they would be confiscated immediately.

Instead a Tribunal Elder Kouyo had appeared at his side, one frail hand set on the edge of his shell to stop his retreat, and asked in polite Japanese if he could be shown certain excerpts. Leonardo was prepared for this, and flipped the journal on it's edge to display paper bookmarks tucked between the pages, with several important and relevant incidents highlighted.

The master mystic examined several of these pre-selected passages before venturing off on his own, turning pages thoughtfully and skipping ahead at random. It did not take much of this before his white brows lifted in surprise. Kouyo did not pause to scrutinize whatever had shocked him, but continued on to peruse some unrelated artwork. Leonardo gave the doodles a cursory glance. "Michelangelo is capable of much better than these," he observed. He hadn't meant to sound critical, just that he had witnessed far more elaborate and polished work than these messy sketches.

The elder cast him a silencing glance and lingered long on the series of pictures. "These are illustrations for a story," he finally commented. "A _much larger_ story... too large to compose abroad, with such limited supplies. But the outline is here, on the opposite page. Did you not read it for yourself?"

Leonardo cleared his throat with vague embarrassment. "I only skimmed it. I did try to focus on the passages that were relevant to the Foot Clan's accusations, but... yes. I think it's supposed to be a fantasy story? Something about centaurs."

"Minotaurs," Kouyo murmured with distraction, having returned most of his focus to Mike's work. "It is fascinating! The minotaur was a monster in Greek legend, but your brother has made them into a close-knit tribe of..." The old man paused and looked up to search the air between them for the right word.

"Heroes?" Leonardo supplied softly.

"Just so. He has built a whole world for them. I was on the council overseeing the first half of your brother's training, as you probably know."

Leonardo nodded once and said nothing.

"I watched him huddle on a dark rooftop in Yekaterinburg with a flashlight caught between his teeth," Elder Kouyo mused. "He sat there for... oh, it must have been hours. I suspect that he would have carried on throughout the night, but was thwarted when snow began to fall. All the while I was thinking, what can that boy possibly be working on with such intensity?" Two of his knobby, ink-stained fingers tapped the page. "But I know now it was _this_."

"He'll probably never actually write the book," Leonardo sighed. "By then he'll have moved on to the next big idea."

Once again, his words sounded more negative than Leonardo had meant to sound. He was, however, speaking truthfully and from considerable experience. He had seen it time and again.

"Hamato Yokai. Do you really find this creation of your brother's to be irrelevant to his current situation?"

"I... fail to see..." Leonardo floundered.

"This is what you and the rest of the Hamato clan stand to lose if it is judged that the talent must be burned out of him. He will become a shell of his former self, stripped of all passion and inspiration. He will no longer be capable of emotional extremes. All of this was explained to you?"

The turtle's milky eyes dropped quickly. He lowered his head in a perfunctory bow and whispered, "Yes, Kouyo-sama. It was explained."

"Good. I watched this ritual performed on the husband of my sister... I would not wish it on the family of anyone. But I will not hesitate to vote in the best interest of the Tribunal. Rogue practitioners cannot be permitted. The secrecy of our ancient arts _must_ be maintained."

"I understand," Leonardo insisted, no longer sure he was speaking truthfully. The very thought made him feel sick.

The only thing he really understood was that he would denounce the Tribunal, gather his team, and they would fight tooth and nail before letting such a fate befall Mike.

Now he was alone in his private chambers at last, seated on his knees. Sitting on the table in front of him was the stack of journals.

He both ached and dreaded to read more. Was it right to read more? His presentation was over, after all. There was no longer any formal requirement to browse those pages... and yet, what if something there would help him to defend Mike, or even just understand him better?

 _Mikey was gay_! Every now and then the thought would strike him all over again.

Gods, how had he not _known_?

Leonardo thought of all the posters of sleek, muscle-bound super heroes that had plastered his brother's walls since early childhood -- or the sleek, muscle-bound Minotaurs that adorned the pages of his journals even now. Even his longtime friendship with Angel could have been a clue. It had never escalated into something more, in spite of the fact that she had grown from a stick of a girl into someone whom even Leonardo's blind eyes could recognize as a rather striking young woman.

He'd been thrown off by one big thing, though. Two weeks ago, if you had asked Leo to name his most homophobic brother... without hesitation, it would have been Mikey. He wasn't hateful about it, necessarily! He seemed to have no moral objections, and agreed that they should be allowed the same rights as all people.

But more than anything, it was that his word choice could be... _extremely insensitive_. He had grown fond of a particular "f-word", and it wasn't fuck. So many times he had swallowed his rage. It had never seemed worth battling over, when they had so many other things to fight about. The other two saw fit to let it go with nothing more than a derisive, sarcastic comment or a tense, close-lipped glare of disapproval. Leo hadn't wanted to reveal just how personally he took these slurs. He hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself.

The blind jōnin experienced a vivid memory then: the four of them fighting Purple Dragons in the flickering light of a warehouse. Michelangelo is amped with wild glee and adrenaline after weeks of relative inactivity. Once again, Leo calls out a warning and Mike whirls on the foe attempting to sneak up on him from behind. Something in his youngest brother's grin halts the gangster in his tracks. Once again, Leonardo hears his little brother's viscous laugh before he springs into a receptive stance. "Oh yeah? You wanna suck chuck, _faggot_?" He crooks one finger right before he flicks his wrist and the nunchaku start to spin. "Then, come and get it!"

It had been so hard to feel anything but enraged, but now he could look back and see it differently. Maybe Michelangelo had felt a right to use these words. Maybe adopting them himself made it sting less to hear them.

Maybe he had wanted to be challenged about it. Maybe he had wanted them to be upset. Maybe it was the safest way he could think of to test their reactions...

_And I gave him none at all._

Leonardo stiffened with another sudden memory, made horrible with hindsight. _Oh, gods... that awkward conversation about Bushido!_

_I have been such a coward. I have been such a fool._

The worst was that there was nothing he could do right now to make amends for any of it. He would not be allowed to directly interact with Michelangelo for six long months.

 _There is nothing I can do_ , he realized. _Except... keep studying these journals. He's going to feel pissed off and invaded no matter what at this point. And if there is something in these pages that I can use to help defend him... if I can better understand him, maybe some good can come of this mess._

_Perhaps he will forgive me if I agree to tell him any private thing he cares to know about myself._

Even now, after everything that Leonardo had learned, it was still a terrifying thought. All the familiar old fears and insecurities settled over him. It was not just that he was in love with another man, but the nature of that love... the ways in which he had usually given himself to Usagi, and how completely he had relished it. Even their significant age difference was not an issue when they together in Usagi's world. Such arrangements between male samurai were widely practiced, particularly between a young pupil and his mentor. But what did his brothers know of _wakashudō_? How sordid and taboo would it seem to them?

Leonardo had lived all his life with the sense that he had a certain image to maintain. It was his duty and responsibility to set a good example. How drastically would this new information change their view of him? How would it undermine him? Would it boggle their minds to know how long ago it started or how often he had lied? Would they think that he had been abused, a misguided and willing participant in his own statutory rape?

 _Gods_... did any of it matter in the face of this disaster? If they lost Mikey to this ruthless, personality-altering solution, their team was as good as done for.

And yet...

And yet, how could he possibly reveal what he had been to Miyamoto? What he would be again, if his fondest hopes for himself were finally granted?

 _Wakashu_ to a mendicant ronin... Had he ever been happier?

“Widen your stance, Leonardo-san. Keep your center of balance low or you will easily be knocked off kilter when you move to parry.” the ronin circled the young warrior, sharply tapping him here and there with his sheathed wakizashi physically prompting the correction in the shinobi’s posture.

There were very few people that Usagi felt were competent or skilled enough to even begin grasping the unique hybrid style of swordsmanship which Katsuichi-sensei had created and passed on to him. But on the short time that he had known Leonardo he had seen potential in the boy, a fire which lit his sapphire eyes and the masterless samurai knew that this whelp could very well become the greatest warrior he knew, even surpassing his own skill. But that was still a long way off for the turtle, especially if he did not correct his damn posture.

He drew his katana from his belt, keeping the blade within the polished wooden sheath. He quickly forced the boy into a deeper horse stance by slapping his inner thigh hard enough that on non-reptilian skin the blow would have left a welt. The long eared ronin checked the position and smiled softly when it was obvious that the boy had finally gotten it. He leaned forward softly spoke into his wakashu’s ear and placed a paw gently onto the dark green scales of the ninja’s shoulder, “This position should become as comfortable and natural as sitting, Leonardo-san. Keep your center low, stay rooted. This position is essential to master if you want to become proficient in my fighting style.”

For all of his young life so far, Leonardo has been praised for his posture, which has always been deemed excellent... especially in comparison to his brothers. It is, therefore, a strange experience to find himself upbraided for it!

The turtle has to check the smile that threatens to betray him. Back home he has reached such a level mastery, to an extent that praise has become meaningless. Praise is nothing to him but confirmation that a lesson has been a waste of time.

The feeling of being unable to advance any further when training with his team is beyond frustrating. But here, with Usagi, there is still so much to learn!

Good posture has always come so naturally to him, but nothing about this posture feels natural. His usual bearing, by default, is straight and proud. This low and wide-legged position is anything but.

The slap on the thigh draws a gasp from him and causes his tucked tail to stir involuntarily. That particular correction was... actually _quite_ wonderful.

Leo says nothing at first, concentrating on the essential position dutifully and also taking a moment to regulate his mysteriously accelerated breathing.

When he finally speaks up, he says, "I swear that I’m trying, Usagi-san. But I still don't understand how you make this style look graceful. I feel like I am impersonating a sumo wrestler."

The ronin let out a soft chuckle in Leonardo’s ear then he moved from behind his young pupil and instead stands in front of him, dropping into a mirror image stance, “Sumo also uses similar stances and that is because they seek to remain firm, like a mountain. Unmoveable, unsurpassable. That is the entire purpose of Sumo, my friend. How we differ from Sumo, however, is that we are far more versatile.”

The samurai began shifting his feet, moving about in a circle before his student, demonstrating the steps they had been drilling for a week straight. The movements were second nature to Usagi, having become a part of him as much as his pulse and breath, “We seek to emulate not a mountain with it's unforgiving rigidity, but rather to move as a willow does. Shifting with the wind, bending, letting ourselves be supple and yielding but -”

The older warrior dropped low and swept his leg outward, catching the ankles of the shinobi who had relaxed his stance to watch the ronin’s demonstration, dropping the teen flat onto his shell with a loud thud. In another swift motion Usagi was above Leonardo, pinning the boy’s hands above his head in the thick grass. “ _Even a willow understands the importance of its roots_.” 

Leonardo's mind wipes blank for a moment as that iron grip closes upon his wrists. He squints up at Usagi silhouetted in the summer sun, unable to speak. These lurching moments occur more often in the long-eared ronin's company than the prideful turtle is ready to admit to anyone.

"Otsukaresama deshita **(Otsukaresama deshita is a phrase that does not translate directly into English. It is a common term used to congratulate someone on their hard work. The closest translation is “you are tired” this is seen as a compliment because in Japanese culture being tired is seen as you working hard and is respectable. )** , Usagi-san," he manages to congratulate, though his breath remains caught in his throat and limits his voice to a quiet rasp. "You have already uprooted me."

His blush is bright now, his teenage hormones already blazing, but these things do not command his behavior. Even when trying to flirt with someone he remains painfully respectful and courteous.

A smile tugged at the edge of his lips as Leonardo weakly spoke while pinned beneath his grip. The red hue of color that had begun to creep onto the scales of the turtle’s cheeks betrayed just how uprooted the teen had become, regardless of the calm and dignified air he tried to maintain.

He had no way to know of the lurching sensation that Leonardo experienced in proximity to him. Sensations that occur especially when their training sessions, which had become more and more frequent over the last few months, took turns such as this. But if the ronin did know of it, it might have soothed his mind about just how often he found his own heart racing and the increasingly familiar sensation of butterflies waging war in his stomach when he was with his wakashu.

Usagi gave the boy beneath him a soft smile and slowly dipped his head closer to the shinobi’s until they were barely an inch apart as he replied in a voice just as quiet as the one the teen had used, “You are improving, Leonardo-san. We will simply have to train harder if you can be so easily uprooted.”

" _Hhh_..." the young turtle exhales audibly. He can feel Usagi's breath stirring over his face. He is hyper aware of the strong thighs beneath the hakama, pressed firmly as they are against both of his sensitive, leathery bridges. Just a tickle of sensation at first, but it grows to become a tingling, almost searing heat.

Leonardo swallows hard but finds his courage. He keeps his face mostly in check, but the skin around his mouth tightens and his blue eyes narrow merrily as he agrees, " _Much_ harder. Yes."

Usagi looked down on the young prodigy warrior beneath him, amaranth taking in the mischievous glint in Leonardo’s cerulean, drinking in the sight of the playful smile that had begun to take hold of the shinobi’s tantalizing lips as he looked up at his mentor. The desire to catch those lips with his was growing increasingly more unbearable with each heartbeat that he stayed in this position, pinning the boy to the ground.

The ronin let out a soft sigh and lifted himself off of the lad, releasing his hands and kneeling in the grass instead as he looked down on his student. With each spar and every day that he spent with the turtle he felt the stirrings of desire within him growing exponentially, his heart would race, his breath had begun to catch traitorously in his throat often. And now this, his cravings for the boy’s touch had grown to the point that he nearly engaged in relations with him in broad daylight just off the road where they had stopped for lunch. His actions were becoming indecent because of this strange rush of lust that had become so familiar while in the presence of this particular ninja.

The long eared samurai gracefully stood and turned his back on the boy, leaving him laying in the grass and walking the dozen paces or so to the small fire they had built to warm their midday tea, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Continue practicing your stance, Leonardo-san. I will tell you when to stop and come get lunch.” He sat down, once again facing the terrapin warrior and added with a playful wink as he poured himself a cup of tea, “Do it right. I will be watching closely.”

Leonardo is quite surprised when the ronin pulls away. He'd thought he had been reading Usagi correctly, but... apparently not? He pushes himself upright but remains where he sits in the grass for another dumfounded beat or two.

By the time Usagi calls out to him, Leo was getting to his feet -- but the sound of his nenja's command makes him scramble to get there faster. He drops back into the awkward pose, checks and double-checks the angles of his body to make sure Usagi will find no complaint. That accomplished, he tries to think strong, mountainy thoughts. No, that's wrong! He's supposed to be a tree...

Leo is still very distracted. It's not lust any more so much as embarrassment, just a touch of ego. He certainly doesn't begrudge Usagi for being the voice of reason, but he still feels rather abashed at having become so worked up, and it having been so obvious.

Finally he chuckles under his breath and turns his head to glance sheepishly at Usagi. The position of his lower body remains excellent, but his shoulders straighten and push back a little as he confesses, "I feel like my focus was just tested. And if that is so, I failed miserably."

 _Amida Buddha, what are you doing? Shut up and be a damned tree,_ Leo sternly tells his brain.

The samurai laughed softly as he lifted his cup of tea to his lips, sipping the scalding liquid slowly and watching Leonardo try to get into the horse stance he had demonstrated earlier. Already the boy showed improvement just from a few small prompts at the ronin’s hands. The shinobi was an incredibly quick study and Usagi doubted that he would have to correct any positioning more than a handful of times before Leonardo performed it flawlessly, which was more than could be said for many students - himself included.

Even years into his training he would occasionally receive a sharp smack on the head with Katsuichi-sensei’s staff as the old lion would chastise, “Posture, dung beetle! Do it again!”

He wore a smile on his face, but not from recalling his own tutelage, but rather because he saw that such reprimand was unnecessary here, he could almost hear Leonardo berating himself mentally as the lad once again turned his full attention back to the lesson at hand.

The ronin leaned back slightly, holding his weight up with a paw set firmly on the ground as his other continued to lift the cup of tea to his lips occasionally. After a short reprieve of silence between them Usagi finally spoke up, “That certainly was not meant as a test of focus, my young friend. At least, not for you. It was I that became distracted. Such behavior, while tempting, _and it most certainly is tempting_ , is indecent for a nenja to prompt from his wakashu in the dirt, at the side of the road and in broad daylight where any passerby could stumble upon it. You deserve far more respect than that, Leonardo-san.”

Leonardo looks rather pleased with Usagi's reply. He allows the full width of his smile to shine briefly, happy to learn that he was not alone after all during that earlier moment of weakness. The shared attraction between them is not a new development -- but it is still new enough that he can marvel at being a temptation to anyone.

His pleasure is short lived. In fact, this stance is rather quickly becoming the _stark opposite_ of pleasure. He buckles down, determined to endure in spite of protesting leg muscles. He tries tensing the muscles, thinking to be more firm and root-like, but doing so makes the burning far worse. _Listen to your body, then_ , Leo tells himself. _Relax_.

How many minutes has it been now? Leo sincerely hopes it has been at least five or six minutes, but isn't at all confident of the fact. He should have paid better attention... then again, maybe not. A willow tree does not count the minutes. A willow tree has all the time in the world.

He endures. He endures until his expression is grim with determination. He endures until he is wet with perspiration, the sweat gathering into beads and charting tickling paths down his neck and the back of his arms. His blue eyes slide back towards Usagi. Is he watching? Can he reach back to brush at his neck? Would it be considered breaking stance? He isn't sure, and does not risk it.

Leonardo decides to view the mild irritation as a hidden blessing. Is it not better to focus on the sensation of dripping sweat than his tormented leg muscles?

At this point he is suffering, but to resent Usagi for this -- or to give up before he has been released -- these thoughts do not enter Leonardo's mind. There is much to appreciate about a truly difficult physical challenge -- and impressing the ronin has become more important to Leo than he is ready to examine or explain.

The ronin fell silent as he slowly drank the cup of steaming tea and watched Leonardo carefully as the shinobi dutifully practiced the rather unpleasant stance. He was quite observant and from his position is was quite obvious that Leo had definitely begun to strain to maintain the position and looked like he was in quite a bit of discomfort. After this observation he waited another three minutes or so before speaking up once again.

The veteran warrior poured himself another cup of tea as well as filling a second one for his student. “Leonardo-san, please come join me for some tea and musubi **(rice balls)**.” When the teen had very gratefully released his stance and made his way over to the samurai Usagi handed him the small ceramic cup and leaf wrapping, flashing his wakashu a broad smile.

“Well done, my friend. I thought of calling you over a full five minutes ago. But you looked like you were _thoroughly_ enjoying yourself. _I did not want to deprive you of your fun_.”

Leonardo takes what has been extended to him and ducks his head and shoulders in an informal bow before getting on his knees across from Usagi. He has grown very thirsty from their training in the mid-day sun, but resists the urge to gulp tea from the cup.

The smile he flashes Usagi is rueful, aware that he is being teased but taking no real offense. A lifetime growing up alongside three brothers - an aggressively grumpy brother, a sarcastic smart-ass brother, and a nickname-loving prankster of a brother, no less - has given him no small amount of tolerance for being ribbed.

"Of course," he murmurs, warmly wry. He sets the taro-wrapped bundle down carefully and brings the cup closer to his mouth to appreciate the aroma before taking a measured sip. Still holding the cup close, he spends a moment studying the simplicity of clear glaze over gritty and unpainted grey-black clay. There is a slight indentation where the thumb is meant to rest, which Leonardo has always found strangely comforting.

There is nothing new for him to notice. He has sipped tea from this cup with Usagi too many times before, but the ritual is upheld nonetheless.

Leo's dark blue eyes flash up at Usagi through curls of steam rising up from his tea. Another smile slashes, quick as a knife, as he quietly declares, "Usagi-san. I just want you to know, too much courtesy and respect may be the death of me."

Usagi drank his own tea quietly, chuckling under his breath at the ‘of course’ he had received from Leonardo. It was astounding to him what a good sport the shinobi was about teasing such as that, had he been told something like that by his sensei at Leonardo’s age he would have very likely handled the situation far less gracefully. The years had certainly done some good for his temper… at least most of the time.

When Leo spoke again the ronin lifted his eyes from his tea, catching the turtle’s gaze and returning the mischievous smile which was flashed his direction. He raised a brow and tilted his head to the side, playfully speaking in a voice full of mock confusion.

“You would rather that I be discourteous and disrespectful to you, Leonardo-san? That is quite an odd request, my friend.”

At these words, there is a constantly sheltered bundle of teenage hormones inside of Leonardo, and he is singing, _Oh, yes! Abuse me, Usagi-san_!

Fortunately, that guy does not get to call the shots very often. There is a lot more going on here than an abundance of hormones, he's pretty sure.

"I don't actually want that." Leonardo says instead, giving Usagi a warmer smile. "I like you just as you are, shiro tora **(white tiger).** Anata wa watashi no insupireishon desu. **(You are my inspiration)** "

He drops his eyes down to his tea, feeling a brave thrill for using a bedroom name on Usagi, out here in broad daylight. His eyes don't stay down very long. He peeks up, curious to see how the long-eared ronin will react.

The mention of the nickname that Leonardo had given him, previously only used in their most intimate of encounters, brought a very rare blush to the ronin’s cheeks, which was barely visible under the thick tufts of fur that covered his face. A small smirk pulled at his lips as he too let his gaze drop to his cup of tea for the span of a few heartbeats.

It amazed him how quickly this boy was able to reduce him to a bashful and seemingly twitterpated whelp. He was a man who had faced countless battles and almost certain death without so much as flinching, yet a few simple words from this young warrior could effectively throw him completely off kilter.

When he lifted his gaze once again to his companion the samurai let that small smirk evolve into a full, toothy grin. He set his teacup on the grass beside him, quickly leaning forward onto his knees, supporting himself with one paw flat on the grass. His free paw was snaked around to the back of Leonardo’s neck, softly whispering, “Watashi mo sou omoi masu **(I feel the same way)** , Leo-chan.” From this close position, a mere inch or so away from the turtle Usagi let his amaranth eyes lock onto Leonardo’s deep blue gaze for a few moments before pulling the boy closer, catching his lips in a brief and chaste kiss.

It's a brief kiss, but it still has the ability to slow time. In that moment he can feel the wind stirring over his dampened skin, the individual blades of grass pressed against his knees, and best of all the tickle of soft fur and whiskers against his beak.

"Miyamoto," he sighs the rabbit's name. "Isn't there somewhere we could go? You have been in my thoughts so many times since our last visit. It was too long to be apart... and it will be longer still until we can be together again."

This is new information. At the ronin’s questioning look, the turtle bows his head and confesses, "In three months time I have to leave on an important journey. It's traditional for ninjas who show promise to undergo the Tribunal's trials. I will be traveling the world and facing challenges... perhaps for as long as a year."

Initially he had swelled with pride at having been singled out. But in this moment, all he can see is the tragedy of being forced apart. The many festivals he will miss, the lessons he will have to carry on practicing without Usagi, and _this_... "I'm sorry," he whispers with true regret. "I... maybe I should have declined their summons? Perhaps there is still time."

The ronin had smiled briefly at the turtle’s initial proposal of some privacy but the smile had quickly faded as the boy continued speaking, being replaced instead by a quizzical and pensive look.

The thought of not seeing Leo for possibly a full year left an empty pain in his chest, one that he knew he should not feel as his wakashu went on to higher forms of training. This is something that should not bring him sadness, he should be proud of the young warrior for his abilities and the fact that the highest order of shinobi had called upon him for this training. But he was not.

In just the few heartbeats of silence between them a hundred reasons of why Leo should delay his trials, why he should not go, why he should not leave him ran through the ronin’s mind. But Usagi knew that all of them were excuses and selfish ones at that. It was not his place to deprive Leonardo of this opportunity. It was time for the boy to walk his own musha shugyo.

The samurai pressed his lips against Leo’s one more time, less chaste than the last, savoring the unique sensation it was to kiss the terrapin warrior. When he pulled back it was with a convincing smile, though his heart was not truly in it. “I would not have you decline such an opportunity on my account, Leonardo. Your training is important and it is a great honor that has been presented to you. I am happy for you.”

The ronin reached over, grabbing the nearly full pot of tea and dumping the contents onto the low burning fire they had started. He stored the pot as well as his own tea cup in his pack, all the while trying to push away the lump that had formed in his throat and continuing to speak to Leo in a tone that was just a little too quick and enthusiastic to be genuine. “One year is not so long a time. And who knows? When you return perhaps you will have a few lessons for me. The prospect is exciting. I only wish I would have known at the beginning of your visit, I would have tried to make the time more enjoyable than drilling a horse stance all morning!”

The rabbit stood, tossing his pack onto his shoulders and holding a paw up to help Leo to his feet. At this point the smile he wore was becoming obviously forced, but he tried to keep up a happy disposition none the less, “Come along, Leo-chan. I know of a nice place nearby.”

Of course Leo can tell that Usagi is upset, but he doesn’t know what he can say to soothe the ronin. He drains the remainder of his tea in a gulp, and stuffs the taro-wrapped snack into his mouth as well before accepting the rabbit's paw and getting to his feet.

He eats silently and doesn’t speak right away, but there are several glances in Usagi's direction as they walk together. This is why he did not say anything right away. He was afraid of this, the overcast of sadness which has now settled over a perfectly sunny day.

As he glances over, he realizes that he is grateful to Usagi for those words - and that they come to him reluctantly. _I'll miss you too, my friend_ , he thinks.

The truth is, Leonardo has already committed to make the attempt. It probably IS too late to back out. As recently as yesterday, the young turtle was so certain in his burning desire to prove himself and advance in rank. But just now, face to face with the one he'll miss the most, he is filled with weakness.

"I don't mind the time we've spent training. I still have so much to learn from you... Tell me how long to practice the horse stance. I'll work on it every day we're apart."

He stretches out a hand, reaching to twine his fingers together with Usagi's.

The silence between them is stifling as they began to walk, veering off of the main road and instead taking a less travelled path into the forest. It was a beautiful walk, the summer sun shining through the canopy of leaves, bathing the area in a soft green glow. It was a path that Usagi had taken many times before and had often wanted to bring Leo here, though the situation had certainly been different in his mind.  
  
He never thought that this beautiful place would be where he said goodbye to Leo.

While he said to the shinobi that a year was not so long, in truth it seemed an eternity. The life that he lived was fraught with dangers and he could not even guarantee that he would be around to meet Leonardo when he returned in a year’s time.

He was pulled out of his own dark thoughts as the turtle’s fingers laced into his own and Leo’s voice filled the space between them. He gave the shinobi’s hand a soft squeeze, beginning to stroke the back of Leo’s hand with the pad of his thumb as he cleared his throat and spoke, “I don't wish for you to add more to your workload than you need to. But when I began my training Katsuichi-sensei had me practice for twenty to thirty minutes a day.”

At this point Usagi took another turn onto an even less used path which was slightly overgrown and wild. The path was not as easy to maneuver but Usagi made sure to walk a step ahead of Leo, still holding on to his hand tightly, pulling him gently and only releasing his hand on the occasions when he had to push branches away to clear the path for his wakashu, even if it resulted in a few scratches on his own arms. It was worth it though to bring Leonardo to one of his favorite spots, a small clearing in the forest, dominated on all sides by towering pines, close enough to the river to hear the water play along the rocks.

When they had at last broken through the treeline into the warm sun which was able to shine unhindered onto the forest floor the ronin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting himself enjoy the sounds and smells of the forest before turning to the young shinobi. He wore a sad smile but spoke genuinely as he reached out with his free paw to gently cup the teen’s face, “I am proud of you, Leo-chan… and I will miss you every day until you return.”

 

Leonardo's face betrays a helpless twinge of his own sadness, drawing his brows tighter and setting his mouth briefly into a firm line.

"I haven't left yet!" he asserts with quiet passion. "I won't even leave soon, if I can help it. At the last moment, I..." He flushes with embarrassment, knowing that he really should have checked this over with Usagi first. He sets his hand overtop Usagi's soft paw, cupping it to his face as he admits, "I begged for more time. Not... I mean, I can't delay the trials. That date is fixed. But I begged for more time with _you_."

He got the distinct impression that his father was not pleased with the request. Leo can understand that. His family will also miss him every day that he is gone. Then to learn that he would rather spend a portion of his remaining time away from them... Leo understands his father's disappointment all too keenly.

"I told them there was much you could teach me about living off the land," he admits with a downward glance. It is true enough, but at the same time not the _truth_ , to an extent that properly shames him. "But even that was so presumptuous of me, when you and I have not even discussed it! I understand if you have prior commitments. Perhaps a month-long stay is putting too great a burden on you..."

When the shinobi confessed to him that he had asked his family to allow him to stay the majority of his remaining time allotment before his trials in his company the ronin felt a small smile tug at his lips. So too did the way that the boy flounder over explanations of his actions. Truthfully the samurai cared not one bit about the presumptions on Leo’s part, he felt only a swell of gratitude for a little extra time with his wakashu before the long separation that awaited them.

Usagi shifted his paw off of the boy's cheek, instead tilting his gaze back upward at him with two fingers placed gently under the turtle’s chin. He leaned forward to catch Leo’s lips, pressing a series of soft kisses to them quietly mumbling between the brief demonstrations of affection, “I want you to stay, Leo-chan… please.”

"Oh, good," Leo breathes into the space between them with a wash of relief. He tilts his head and gently nuzzles his beak to strum the ronin's longest whiskers, aware of their heightened sensitivity and purposefully making them sing with conflicting sensations. This love they share has only ever existed in short and stolen moments, but in that time they have still learned so much about one another.

Leo straightens to kiss the adorable rabbit nose, mostly to watch it wrinkle with an involuntary up-and-down twitch. That's all it takes to rediscover his smile.

He does not take further initiative than to press himself close, sliding his arms under Usagi's voluminous sleeves. The terrapin marvels at how much he can enjoy the slight heat and pressure of the ronin's firm chest against him, even through a heavy plastron and four layers of fabric.

"I'll stay," he finally whispers. "And from now on, tomorrow doesn't exist. There is only this moment."

The samurai smiled softly as the turtle nuzzled him and pressed his lips against the tip of his nose, the actions certainly drawing the anticipated and desired involuntary twitches from his cheeks and snout. The smile was followed by a soft rumbling purr from his chest when Leonardo pressed close him, cool reptilian limbs situated against his soft fur, wrapping around so that the shinobi’s hands rested on his back.

Usagi wrapped Leo in a tight hug, gripping the edge of the turtle's shell just above his shoulders as he closed his eyes and nuzzled the young warrior's cheek softly with the side of his snout.

The thought of not having Leo beside him like this was enough to make his stomach churn. The typical span of a week or two between visits had already become agonizing, he was not sure how well he would handle a full year without him.  
  
Which was just ridiculous. The amount of desire and longing he had for this boy was grossly inappropriate. The affection that he felt went far beyond what it was acceptable for a nenja to feel for his wakashu. But he simply could not help the way that his heart leaped when Leonardo was near him, he could not quench this insatiable desire for Leo’s touch. And he could not ignore the near certainty that Leo felt the same way.

There was no denying what it was he felt when he really thought about it, which he tried to do as seldom as possible, but now as he clung tightly to the boy he firmly thought all if the things he wished he could say to the boy.

_Aishiteru_ **(I love you)** _, Leo-chan. Hajimete ata tokikara sukidata_ **(I've loved you since the first moment I laid eyes on you)** _. Watashi no isshoo no koibito._ **(You are the love of my life)**

He knew that if he spoke what was in his heart it would only bring further heartache to their parting. And Leo’s only true request of him had been to simply enjoy this moment. He could not deny his wakashu that. “Anata wa watashi ga koko ni iru kara ureshii des **(It brings me great joy within to be here with you)**.” he mumbled softly into the shinobi’s ear before pulling away just enough to look at him directly and gently plead, “Leo-chan, kisu shite **(kiss me)**.”

"Hai, Tora! **(Yes, Tiger)** " Leonardo returns, hoarse with the heady rush of feelings those words inspire. He ducks and tilts his head slightly to kiss Usagi while his fingers slide and drag over spotted silk. His mouth remains closed at the edges, and opens only enough to catch Usagi's lower lip - enough to draw Usagi's small and extremely warm tongue into his mouth, to wrangle and suck on it with passion. There is confidence in his kisses now. He's had time enough to practice and improve.

As ever, Leo's aim is not just to obey but to deliver beyond expectation. He would leave Usagi breathless and staggering. He would prove and convey with his actions everything that cannot be spoken.

A wide smile had begun to form on his lips but was quickly extinguished in favor of returning the kiss which begun as a soft gesture, swiftly evolving into a passionate exchange of heated exploration. Usagi shifted his weight onto the pads of his feet, lifting himself up off of his heels to better meet the boy's lips.

The feeling of Leo’s hands on him, gently tugging at his kimono as they move along his arms sends a slight shiver through him, the skin under his thick coat of fur erupting in goosebumps. The way that Leo’s touch made him respond was unlike any other experience he had ever felt, as though every nerve in his body became hypersensitive just due to being in proximity to the young warrior.

It was intoxicating. It was addictive. And the ronin gladly welcomed this vice into his life.

He returned the kiss with matched passion as he wrapped a paw into the long sapphire tails of the shinobi’s distinctive mask. Usagi used the leverage to pull Leo closer still, the incessant desire - no, the need to bridge even the illusion of distance between them growing with every heartbeat.

The terrapin allows himself to be tugged downward. He bends slightly at the knees to set his teeth gently on the ronin's neck, then kisses the spot and runs his beak against the fur on his jawline. His arms stretch to squeeze the ronin’s backside and then slide over protruding hip bones before landing on the neatly tied _obi_.

Holding himself lower so that he can look up at the ronin, the shinobi's dark blue eyes lance up. His hands are poised to untie the knot, and though he burns to strip them both and race headlong into carnal pleasure, historically it has not been his place to lead them thus.

In truth, he enjoys their established roles -- enjoys the structure and sanctity of wakashudō **(way of the wakashu)** as it exists in this marvelous world. But he also feels reciprocal desire for Usagi, and far more of it than what he knows is proper. He has read that the pleasure of the younger partner is to be viewed as inconsequential in comparison to the satisfaction of the _nenja_. It is more typically a gesture of servitude and devotion rather than one of lust or love... Between the two of them, this has never been the case.

He blames Usagi for the romantic intensity of their bond at least as much as he blames himself... kind-hearted and generous Usagi, who has spoiled Leo thoroughly with pleasure at every opportunity.

A soft moan leaves his lips as the turtle gently nips at his sensitive neck and curious hands grab his backside. When Leo’s hand snake their way to the front of his waist, hesitantly grasping the thick knot on his belt the ronin met the boy’s upward glance with a slight smirk before leaning back slightly enough to give Leonardo room to work on the knot, making no move to stop the turtle from his current course of action, merely hungrily taking in the sight of him as he did and sliding his own hands along Leo’s chest to similarly start relieving the boy of his garments.

Though every aspect of their intimate relationship was thoroughly enjoyable, Usagi by far enjoyed moments like this the most. The careful progression of an ever evolving dynamic, seeing Leonardo grow and change, becoming confident and courageous in these exchanges.

So too did he enjoy when his wakashu was in an excited rush such as he was now, while it meant that he had to bite back his own desire to give in to the pace which was obviously desired by both parties, the resulting flustered shinobi was typically well worth it. And, after all, Leonardo had told him to enjoy the moment.

When the ronin had finished his own work of unknotting the turtle’s obi he took a step back out of the boy's reach, proceeding to meticulously and unnecessarily roll the sash neatly, taking his time before setting it gently on the ground, all the while wearing a mischievous smirk.

Leonardo is silent as they continue to disrobe one another. It becomes a game of taking turns, deft hands sliding under hems, and painstaking courtesy. With a quick grin at his own error, the terrapin ducks quickly to retrieve Usagi's obi where he had been so careless as to allow it to fall on the grass in a heap.

He tries to match the ronin’s air of unhurried serenity, but Leo is unsuccessful in keeping his hands from rushing through the task. The simple white sash is coiled up in his palm in no time. He kneels and bows his head low before setting it carefully beside Usagi's feet.

He lifts his head and comes closer, moving on his knees, and Usagi can feel strong, three-fingered hands slide up the back of his thighs in a stolen caress before his blunt fingers hook along the top of his hakama. _And now this_? his burning eyes are asking with his upward glances.

He doesn't need a verbal answer. Usagi's eyes are like hungry, exotic jewels, and speak volumes. The hakama is tugged down over his hips and collected when it pools at his feet. This, too, he folds with great care and sets beside the obi.

He gets back to his feet as it becomes Usagi's turn again, presenting himself so that the samurai might remove whatever he pleases. Though he burns with adolescent fire, Leonardo works hard to maintain his perfect poise. Those passionate kisses have worked him into such a state of arousal that it now requires a conscious effort to keep himself sheathed. His cloaca is clenched tight against the press of his cock. It's not exactly comfortable, but he would not disrupt the silhouette of his own hakama, nor soil the fabric between his legs with fluids, right before Usagi may choose to remove it. Besides, it pleases him immensely to drop only on Usagi's command.

Usagi stood still and did not speak, the only thing betraying the serene facade he had adopted was a rumbling purr as his wakashu dropped to his knees before him. The shinobi’s skilled and sword calloused hands gently ran along his legs, finally resting on the strings of his hakama.

Already the older warrior was beginning to strain uncomfortably within his fundoshi, every moment that this game continued proving to be a true test of his willpower. A test which he pointedly failed as Leo’s cerulean eyes flashed up at him. The ronin remained _mostly_ silent as the garment was tugged off of his hips and guided to the ground, he lifted his feet slightly one after the other to allow the teen to take the garment that was then folded and set aside. As Leo worked Usagi set his daisho on the forest floor beside the growing pile of clothes.

When Leo stood once again Usagi reached forward and carefully removed Leo’s swords from the string of his flowing pants and set them aside. With that final gesture the niceties came to an end. Usagi turned sharply to once again face his wakashu and deftly unknotted the boy’s hakama, letting the cloth simply drop to the ground as he quickly pushed the kimono which Leo wore off of his shoulders. The moment that the emerald green scales were visible the ronin stepped forward pulling the boy towards him until Leo’s plastron was pressed firmly against his chest which was exposed through his open kimono. With another deep purr, which was honestly far more akin to a growl, he began planting kisses and nips onto the turtle’s shoulders and neck, letting his paws roam across his wakashu’s beautiful form.

Leonardo is focused completely on Usagi and knows it the moment his lover's formidable will crumbles. The break in courtesy excites him -- the tossing of clothes, the rough urgency that has come into his touch. By the time their chests are pressed together once again, Leo's plastron is heaving with every quickened breath.

The ronin's teeth are sharp and very strong, natural weapons in their own right. The teen's comfort and trust in Usagi must be absolute, in that he gives this show of affection no second thought. He merely tilts his head in the other direction to better expose his throat.

His breathing was fast before, but by the time Usagi has finished kissing and biting the length of his neck it has become positively ragged. This stretch of skin along the neck is so very sensitive -- far more so than he or his brothers will readily admit even to their closest allies. It is absolutely an erogenous zone for them, as Usagi must have guessed by now. A soft creak of desire escapes his parted lips, though he cuts it off deep in his throat almost as soon as it begins. " _Tora_ ," he pleads. "Use your claws there, _kudasai_ **(please)**."

The sound of the increasing raggedness in Leonardo’s breath as he touched and teased him made the ronin’s heart pound in his chest and stoked the flames of desire within him which had begun to burn as brightly as a beacon’s glow. The shinobi tilting his head to give him unrestrained access to his throat was met with Usagi trailing his administrations up the shinobi’s neck until he was able to nip at his jawline.

His keen ears picked up the small noise Leonardo made before he spoke and a grin formed on his lips. He loved the sounds that the turtle made when he was aroused, especially when the boy was unable to suppress the unique sounds that he had referred to as ‘churrs’. It was beyond rewarding to work Leo up to the point that he was no longer capable of keeping his composure and preventing those primal sounds from escaping his lips.

At Leonardo’s request the samurai slowly and very gently dragged his claws along the scales of the turtle’s sculpted arm and shoulder finally letting it rest at the side of the boy's neck. He had figured out long ago how sensitive of an area the neck was for Leo and had certainly taken advantage of that fact at every opportunity, and this was certainly no exception.

The ronin let his claws slide along the ninja’s neck and jawline, there was very little pressure - just enough to give the action the very slightest bit of bite as he quickened the pace of his nimble fingers until the gesture was far more akin to scratching an incessant itch. It has certainly taken a bit of trial and error to figure out that it was this which Leonardo desired when he gave the increasingly frequent request, but it was a discovery that proved to be well worth the time spent sorting through vague and coy requests.

A memory surfaced briefly of the night that they had figured this out together.  
  
 _The turtle had been straddling his lap as he leaned back against an uprooted tree, the both of them already spent, but nearly pained and desperate whimpers continued to come from his wakashu as the younger warrior nuzzled him. Leonardo had been for the span of a minute rubbing his beak and neck against the ronin, shifting uncomfortably and agitatedly on top of him._

_Usagi pressed his own cheek firmly against the boy and breathlessly whispered, “What is it you need, kame-chan? What can I do?”_

_Leonardo’s response was a mumbled and frustrated, “I… I don't know. I need… something. Tora… please.”_

_Usagi had shifted his weight to allow him to practically swap their positions, now kneeling in the dirt between Leo’s legs which wrapped around his hips, pressing the turtle against the fallen tree. He had started with kisses, bites and nuzzles against the area that seemed to be troubling Leo, only to be met with more exasperated whimpers, regardless of how pleasurable the actions were. He had only reached his paw upward to pull the boy into a kiss, but when his claws made contact with the turtle's neck the shinobi has gone stiff, one of those exquisite churrs leaving his lips. A satisfied smirk dominated the ronin’s features as he straightened himself up, placing his paws on either side of the boy’s neck, dragging the sharp black claws lightly across emerald scales._

_The action seemed to switch something on in the boy who could no longer stop the rumbling churrs in his chest, managing only a raspy plea of ‘faster’. The samurai willingly complied, beginning to scratch quickly at the boy’s neck, surrendering some control when Leo grabbed at his wrists, moving the ronin’s paws across his jawline and cheeks, becoming flushed and quite loud as he did._

_They tried and tried. The frustrated lust young Leonardo so plainly felt proved to be contagious, until Usagi could not endure it. He snatched the wrist of his sword arm away from the lad and switched to scratching him with a single paw. The young turtle had been mid-churr and now the sound of his mating call took on a plaintive note. His hands were uncommonly clumsy with distraction, groping at the air in an effort to retrieve Usagi's paw._

_The long-eared ronin ignored his wakashu's questing hands and seized the enormous erection which lay neglected between them, twitching and flopping against the lower plates of the lad's armored chest. Leonardo's protests vanished at once, and soon he was pumping his tail with enthusiasm in time to Usagi's strokes. It had been simple from there, bringing the boy to climax._

_Thus it has been every time, ever since._

Even now Leo pleads for this to continue. Even though he has never been able to reach ecstasy from this alone, still he begs for it not to stop with the tiny gasps of air he can manage to grab in between the relentless tides of sound pouring out of him.

Usagi let the memory fade into the ether of the past instead letting his full attention turn to the older version of Leonardo before him. The far more self assured, experienced… and _taller than him_ Leonardo. He cupped the shinobi’s face between his hands, gently scratching his jaw as he pressed forward to steal a kiss. He had intended for the kiss to be gentle and soft, so it was to begin with, but it quickly turned into a hungry and possessive act.

The ronin savored the unique and intoxicating flavor of his wakashu’s kiss, relishing in the deep churrs which were muffled by his own mouth and tongue. He himself groaned into the kiss as the pressure and friction of his fundoshi became nearly unbearable. Though he knew that it would bring a brief protest the ronin shifted the position of his paws to allow him to guide Leo down onto the soft thicket of grass beneath them, breaking the kiss in order to kneel between Leo’s legs which he pushed open to bring the boy’s impressively swollen tail into view.

He lifted his gaze back to the turtle’s and scratched at his jaw once more as he softly commanded, “ _Drop_.”

Leonardo is certain there is no finer cure for churring than to be smothered by Miyamoto's kisses. To feel soft downy fur and stiff whiskers tickling his face, the strong lick of that hot tongue on the inside of his mouth, to use his own to test the edge of those sharp teeth, and feel the matching purr that still rumbles up from somewhere deep inside Usagi. He doesn't want that to end any more than the scratching he begged for just a moment prior. He leans forward with his neck outstretched to chase the kiss, stealing another half-second of contact with the ronin’s mouth as he is pulling away.

Leo sinks back onto the pads of his elbows, panting and grunting softly as he gazes down the length of his plastron. _Be good_ , he thinks. _It's always better when you do as he says._ And it's true. He is a sloppy mess of half-understood wants and desires, and thanks the gods for sending this beautiful nenja to guide him.

A thrill passes through him as his legs are wrenched apart -- and again, even more so, at the command which follows.

"Rhhh... yes, Tora." He breathes the word with too much reverence, the way other men might say 'Dono' **(master)**. Leo tried calling Usagi that exactly once, but the samurai wasn't at all comfortable with the honorific. He's not one who typically needs to be corrected twice.

The turtle makes a strangled and involuntary groan as his cock slides free, too long trapped in confines that had seemed increasingly small by the moment.

Usagi watched hungrily as Leonardo’s manhood was released from its fleshy prison, a sight that the ronin will never tire of. He leaned forward over his wakashu, catching his lips briefly as a paw wrapped around the thick shaft between the shinobi’s legs. His sword calloused hand begins to pump the turtle’s cock at a ready rhythm while scratching Leo’s jawline with deft strokes, drawing truly delicious responses from the boy.

This was one of his favorite views of the young warrior. Prone beneath him, flushed and breathless, brilliant eyes glazed over in the throes of lust and passion far deeper.

The samurai’s eyes glint mischievously for a moment before kissing Leonardo roughly and abandoning the scratching which the boy enjoyed so much, in favor of something that the ronin hoped he would enjoy just as keenly. When he pulled away from the kiss it was to lower himself between the shinobi’s thighs. His gaze dropping to the swollen muscle in his paw.

It was something he had thought about doing for his wakashu on many occasions, but an impulse he had never given into prior to this. The older male ran his tongue along the length of Leo’s cock, savoring the unique flavors and the heady scent of hormones before taking the turtle into his mouth. He tried to mimic the motions and pace which Leonardo used when their roles were reversed, though the turtle’s girth was far more impressive than his own and it proved to be quite the task, but Miyamoto Usagi was never one to shy away from a challenge.

"Oh. Oh, Tora. You don't..." Leonardo is interrupted by his own mating cry, higher than he normally likes. He flushes and swallows the rest of whatever polite protest had sprung to his lips. For him, it had nothing to do with roles or propriety. Rather, he had presumed that it was an unspoken understanding between them, that he was too wide for... for _that_... to possibly be comfortable for Usagi!

But it's better to let the nenja be the judge of these matters. He questions no further, just lolls his head back to look at the sky with a shiver of anticipation. The teasing tickle of that tongue is not so unlike being kissed on the neck, but then there is the most incredible sensation of tight, wet heat surrounding the end of his sex. He gasps and looks down involuntarily, and is treated to a sight he will never forget: Usagi between his legs, his mouth completely stuffed with shiny, black and purple cock.

It can't be comfortable. But all Leo can manage to say is to weakly croak, "Oh, gods...!" Right away he knows he won't last long. It's probably for the best.

The ronin’s gaze flicked upward to meet the shinobi’s eyes above him. He had to admit that he very much liked the view of his wakashu looking down on him, chest heaving with each ragged inhale of breath. But that was not surprising, as he very much liked every view of the shinobi. What was surprising to him, however, was how much he was thoroughly enjoying being on the giving end of this exchange.

Usagi was taking deep and slow breaths through his nose, relaxing his throat and jaw to the best of his abilities to allow as much of Leonardo’s goliath length into his mouth as possible. At best he managed about half of the dark muscle, having to continue stroking the base to prevent it from becoming neglected as his head bobbed along the end of the muscle at a steady pace.

The sensation of his fundoshi on him had become positively painful as his own erection strained against the thick cloth. His free paw reached down between his legs to knead his swelling cock through the fabric of his undergarments, the new pressure bringing a slight whimper to his lips which was muffled by the shinobi’s sex.

"Oh, gods That's..." Indescribable. It's completely amazing, and by now he is well past the point of being able to think. The up and down of his strokes, the concentrated heat and pressure, have utterly conquered him. Leonardo's whole world has shrunk down to this immaculate pleasure from Miyamoto's ministrations. Even the whimper, which normally would draw his attention and perhaps stir his concern, has been lost to the roar of his oncoming orgasm.

He only barely remembers the basic courtesy of warning the samurai. "Tora, I'm going to! Nnnngods...!"

He doesn't have the words to complete that sentiment. He closes his eyes and his head knocks backwards as he cums and cums, groaning and then gasping and then groaning again.

Usagi can feel the boy stiffen at his touch and knew that he was close to release, a fact which he silently thanked the gods for, his own needs becoming desperate. When Leonardo confirmed his suspicion, giving him just an instant of time, the samurai quickly lifted his head away from the shinobi’s cock, tilting the muscle upwards as it bloomed and the boys seed spilled from it, coating the turtle’s lower plastron as Usagi caught his breath.

He leaned forward to lick the remaining substance off of the tip of the thick muscle as it retreated back into the shinobi’s tail. The ronin straightened himself to once again be poised on his knees between the boy’s spread legs, untying his fundoshi with eager and slightly shaking fingers. A groan of relief left him as the cloth fell away, relieving the pressure which was slowly driving him mad.

He lined his member with the opening at the base of Leonardo’s tail, entering the turtle rougher than he typically would during their couplings, having his rational clouded by a desire unlike any he had felt before. When he was buried to the hilt within his wakashu the ronin leaned over the young boy, supporting his weight on the pads of his paws, claws digging Into the grass at either side of the ninja’s head as he looked into Leo’s face, drinking in every reaction. Usagi tried to start moving at a slow pace to give the shinobi time to adjust to the sensation but his base instincts soon overtook him, his hips rocking fiercely against the boy, his pace only growing faster.

It doesn't matter that Usagi is rough with him. In truth, Leonardo loves it when the samurai is especially forceful and commanding. There is so much uncertainty in his world, so much responsibility and authority which falls squarely on his young shoulders. Every single day he is burdened with some new indecision, some new fear, but with Usagi all of that is lifted. Whenever he visits this world, it is Shiro Tora who looks after him, guides him, loves him.

Therefore, Tora can have him any way that he pleases. Leonardo has loved everything they have done so far, after all. After a time, he shifts to hook his legs over those strong, furry shoulders and stretches his tail back to give his lover better access. Leo groans in pleasure as the ronin again begins to pound him. Yes, he even loves this: the feeling of fullness, the samurai's weight pressing down on him, and the rhythmic driving of Usagi's hips into his ass. Now the air is filled with the soft chorus of their grunts and the steady slapping of flesh as they couple frantically. This quick rhythm Usagi always sets seems perfectly natural, because it is all Leo has ever known.

"Oh, yes, ah, uh, uhn..." he mutters soft, meaningless encouragements under his breath, gripping the earth now and pushing up to help bounce himself against Usagi. While energetic, he stays relaxed where it counts. This isn't his first rodeo.

When the shinobi beneath him had begun to shift positions it was, at first, met with some resistance from the currently testosterone fueled samurai. But when Usagi realized what it was Leonardo was trying to achieve he quickly assisted in the movement, helping Leo to put his muscular legs over his fur covered shoulders. With the boy’s legs as they now were he was able to lean forward until the surprisingly flexible turtle’s knees rested near either side on his head. Digging his toes into the ground beneath him gives Usagi better purchase, allowing him to drive each thrust into the young warrior with growing force.

Deep growls rumble through his chest as he is driven deeper into his willing wakashu, the sounds of Leonardo’s gasps, moans and wanton pleasure echoing in his keen ears even above the din of his rushing blood and primal sounds.

The ronin clenched his jaw, muffling the sounds coming from him as he felt the all too familiar sensation of pressure and heat building in his gut. Instinct demanded that he find his release, but Usagi forced himself instead to slow his pace, delaying his climax. He shrugged one of his lover’s legs off of his shoulder, allowing him to bring one paw to Leo’s neck, softly scratching him once again while fucking him at a far more conservative pace.

That breaks him. Leo had been trying to be an active partner, to share the work and match his lover's thrusts. But suddenly those claws, the claws are back, stroking and raking, and his limbs are suddenly jelly. He moans and twists onto his side slightly. Not only is it more comfortable that way with just the one leg supported, but it does him the favor of exposing more of his neck to -- to whatever this is that Usagi does to him. He doesn't know if his brothers share this weakness -- doesn't want whatever awkward situation would have to occur in order to learn it. He doesn't even know what to call it. All he knows is that it is good. And having it while Usagi is inside him... oh, man. So good.

"Oh. Shi. Rhh. Toh. Rhh," he pants. His eyes are heavy-lidded and glittering. He can barely move while Usagi's doing this. He just lays there and takes it.

Even with slowing his pace he knows that his climax is oncoming, he will not be able to keep it at bay indefinitely. His wakashu is too tight, too warm, too willing and far too beautiful for the ronin to fight against the release that was building. Usagi let the other leg drop off of his shoulder and brought his free paw up to mimic the other as he caught Leo’s lips in a heated kiss.

His thrusts, while still deep and forceful, had slowed to a steady rhythm, rocking against his shinobi. The growl that had filled his chest ebbed and were replaced instead by ragged breath and soft moans as the heat within him was built up with every movement until soon there was no escaping the inevitable. He threw his head back, biting down on his lip with a moan as he filled Leonardo with his seed.

When Usagi comes back to his senses, Leonardo is gazing up at him with such adoration. He's reluctant to move at first, not wanting to dislodge Usagi. But soon his desire to cover the ronin's face with kisses is too great. He pushes himself up to bring their faces closer together and do just that.

His strong arms surround the samurai, fingers sliding through the fur on his back. _A month is not long enough_ , he thinks as he presses his beak against Usagi's neck and shoulder. _Would that it could always be this way_...

It's a dangerous thought. The implications leave a small, cold knot in his stomach. He must not let himself think such things.

Usagi’s eyes open to the sight of Leo beaming up at him, he smiles back softly just as the young shinobi attacks him with gentle kisses, wrapping him in a firm embrace. He returns every kiss that he is able to before Leonardo has tucked his head into the crook of his neck and resigns himself to simply collapse of the youth, holding the boy as tightly as he could.

He tried not to think about how long Leo would be gone from his side after this short visit, tried to remind himself that it was only for a year and was good for Leonardo to expand his training. But the ronin could not stop the pain in his chest at the thought of the separation.

There was no denying that their bond was far deeper than that permitted by the laws of wakashudo, the shinobi in his arms was his other half, his soul mate. He knew that he would never truly love any other in his life and was almost certain that Leo felt it too.

He was determined, however, to not let it show how deeply he was stung by the idea that he would not see his ninja for a full year. He had a month with him. A month which he planned on making as memorable as possible. Training could be damned. He fully intended on instead showing his lover the absolute best of his world.  
  
 **-o-o-o-**

 

And that was part of the problem. It had been incredible -- the best month of Leonardo's entire life.

Leonardo was back in his living quarters at the Tribunal Temple. His knew his surroundings were aesthetically lovely, but he could not view the beauty. There was not enough life in the room. Though kept spotlessly clean, it had the sterile and impersonal feel of a hotel room. Hollow and empty. He blew out the guttering candles and stretched out on the futon that had been provided him. The sheets beneath him were crisp and cool. A paper-paneled window had been left open, and beyond it he could hear the quiet wind chimes singing on the autumn breeze. Everything about this place was meant to encourage serenity and peace, but the young jonin could find neither as his sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling. He tried once again to fling himself back into the happy memories of that joyful time, but the troubles of the present had turned all of his thoughts bittersweet.

Leo and Usagi had grown so very close during that time. When it was finally time to part, it was almost unbearable. That was when he first started to think that maybe his relationship with Usagi was a problem. When he was starving in Madagascar... when he lie battered on the brink of death in Mongolia... who did he dream of then? Somehow, it seemed a betrayal to his family. They were his responsibility. They were his priority. They were his brothers!

How many times during his own Five-Fold Path did he tease himself with dreams of his ronin? How many times did he think on how simple -- or how wonderful -- it would it have been, if his trials could take place in Usagi's Japan? The many abandoned temples to rest in, the default hospitality extended to travelers, but most of all... most of all, the sweet company of the samurai himself!

So many times Leonardo had wished for it. One thing was absolutely certain: he had done his brother a kindness. Michelangelo did not understand just how lucky he was!

There was no way he could understand his good fortune or how much Leonardo envied the position he was in. Even fully knowing that the ronin was incredibly cross with him, and had every right to be, the young jonin would have given almost anything to be with him now.


	8. Kagemaru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elders of the mysterious Ninja Tribunal are not individuals that leave much to chance and Kagemaru of the Neko Clan is not one to pass up such a wonderful opportunity.

Tribunal Elder Kouyo’s wrinkled face turned upward in a smile as he watched the eldest of the Hamato clan, the leader of the peculiar band of misfit ninjas, leave with his brother’s journal clenched to his chest. The withered shinobi has been genuine in his exchange with Leonardo, it would truly be a crime for the flame of curiosity, passion and creativity to be snuffed from Michelangelo like the flame of a candle. He saw limitless potential in the grieving clan and to deprive them of even one of their numbers would spell almost certain doom for all. The proud line of Hamato would flicker away, no amount of talent they possessed would revive them from such a loss.

Already their future was uncertain, the loss of their master had set them on a dark path. Their foundation was crumbling. One misstep and they would fall from the razor’s edge they precariously stood upon.

He only hoped that they would prevail. Such a loss of talent would be a terrible shame.

He turned and quickly returned to his seat among the council in the center of the large chamber where Michelangelo’s trial had been held. Apart from the elders the council had dispersed, but there were still matters to attend to before this night was done.

“Come forward.” his voice rang out into the chamber which was seemingly empty apart from his own entourage. Out of the shadows a figure approached the table, kneeling before the elders with his head bowed.

The shinobi before them, an orange cat, lifted his gaze to the elders said, “It is an honor to receive a personal summons from the council. How may I and the Neko clan be of service to you, my lords?”

“Kagemaru, Jonin **(high ranked ninja, leader)** of the Neko clan, you were present for the trail of Hamato Michelangelo?”

The shinobi stood and gave the elders a courteous nod, “Hai. A most interesting turn of events, I am curious to see how it plays out. And I must admit that I was quite surprised to learn that his trials would be executed in my own lands.”

Kouyo nodded briefly, holding his hand up to call for silence, which Kagemaru immediately gave. “That choice was not one of the council, rather the choice on the part of his own Jonin. As I am sure you recall, it was made mention that the Genin **(low ranked, untested ninja)** is currently in the care of a samurai of your lands. It is a warrior which I have been made aware has had dealings with you and your clan in the past. A ronin by the name of Miyamoto Usagi.”

It took every ounce of Kagemaru’s willpower to not groan out loud at the mention of the long eared ronin’s name. “ _Of course it is him_.” he thought to himself before letting out a small sigh and once again addressing the council. “Hai, Kouyo-sama. I am far more acquainted with the vagrant than I am pleased to admit. Long has the ronin been a thorn in the side of the Neko clan. He and those he surrounds himself with have, for many years, been an obstacle in our ambitions of power and influence. Nothing would please me more than to see that one’s head on a pike.”

The elder scratched his chin thoughtfully at the admission, pondering for a few moments before addressing the cat ninja once more, “Through the duration of the young Hamato’s trials none of the clans governed by our council are permitted to interfere with the progression of his tests without explicit command from the council. I understand your vendetta against the ronin and I care not for his fate, however, during the eight months that Hamato Michelangelo is in your lands undergoing his trials you are commanded to put your desires for the ronin’s death to rest, lest they attack your clan directly. Do you have any questions, Jonin?”

The Neko ninja balled one fist placing it in the open palm of his other paw and bowed his head to the council, “I understand, my lords. The Hamato ninja… as well as the vagrant… shall not receive any trouble from the Neko clan, unless it be due to my clan’s self defense. I ask only for confirmation that the ronin’s protection will end the moment that Hamato Michelangelo passes… or fails his trails?”

Elder Kouyo nodded briefly, “Correct, Kagemaru. The ronin is no longer our concern when the trials have been completed or if there comes a time that Hamato Michelangelo releases him from his position as yojimbo and guide. At that time you may begin your vendetta anew.”

A wicked grin graced the lips of the Neko leader who sank into a deep bow, “Understood, my lords.” When the shinobi stood straight once again he still wore that grin, his pointed teeth showing prominently, he brought one hand up to his chin, stroking the tuft of fur there thoughtfully and asked in a voice laced with mischievous curiosity, “Masters... you made mention that you wanted none to interfere _without explicit command_. I am curious if you had any interferences in mind which you require the Neko Clan’s cooperation with?”

The elder shook his head briefly before responding in a mildly amused voice, “No, Kagrmaru. We need only to have you act as our eyes in this matter, _for now_. You are charged with following the genin and reporting his doings to us. Cling to him like shadow to a form. Do not be seen and remember that no detail is too small.” The old mystic pulled a small amulet from within the sleeve of his kimono, tossing it to the shinobi who deftly caught it with his paw. “With this you will be granted passage from your own realms into this sacred space. Do not fail us, Jonin.”

Kagemaru quickly placed the amulet around his neck before dropped to his knee and bowed his head. “Yes, Masters. I thank you for this honor and assure you that your will will be done.”

A hand was raised to call for silence and a cryptic, “We shall see.” rang through the chamber as the Neko ninja melted once again into the shadows.


	9. Niigata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new-found companions seek employment in the port city of Niigata to resupply themselves for the long journey to the Geishu province. However the lure of a nearby festival proves to be too much for them to resist.

The hustle and bustle of Niigata was so different in comparison to the peace and calm of the road that they had enjoyed for the previous days. The sounds of birds and the occasional wild tokage had been replaced by merchants shouting out at passersby about their various wares, the smell of pines and grass replaced by sizzling hot pots wafting out of open inn doors. Usagi was very accustomed to the sights and sounds of the cities in his land but it was an entirely new experience for his young companion who had never before been able to walk openly, in broad daylight, into a thriving city.

As the maskless shinobi darted wide eyed from stall to stall, looking at the trinkets and baubles that were on display the ronin instead spent the time looking for an inn which would accommodate them for a few days while they went about restocking their packs for the journey ahead of them. He managed to find an establishment that was willing to take them on in exchange for the bag of mushrooms he brought in from the forest and a few copper coins.

The samurai pushed back the cloth that hung from the doorway of the inn, giving the old dog who managed it a polite bow and turned to face the street once again. He very quickly spotted Michelangelo in the crowd but rather than interrupting him as he lifted a heavy top to his eyes to inspect the craftsmanship of the toy, Usagi leaned against a wooden pillar which supported the roof of the inn and watched his companion instead.

Over the last week of travelling with the young terrapin warrior Usagi had learned so much about him that he was unaware of through the small interactions that he had with him in the past. Such as Michelangelo’s love for arts and his unceasingly creative mind. The young turtle had regaled him with stories from his planet, which mainly came from what Mikey referred to as ‘Fantasy’ and ‘Sci-Fi’. Amazing tales of good versus evil, epic sagas full of lessons of morality that kept the ronin thoroughly intrigued - even if some of the technology and settings that his friend described completely dumbfounded him.

The older warrior in turn told Mikey of Legends and Lore of this world, as well as a few of his favorite adventures that he himself had been on. Miyamoto was not a creature of vanity, but he did find a certain satisfaction in the captive audience that Michelangelo provided, especially since the energetic ninja always ‘ooh’d, ‘awh’d and gasped at the appropriate moments, making the stories all the more impactful.

Usagi smiled as the shinobi tried out the top, watching it bounce on the ground before coming to a wobbly stop. Pushing himself off of the pole and stepping out into the street he called out, “Ho! Mikey-san!” He jogged across the dirt road, ducking out of the way of a cart as he went and made his way over to the turtle, “I found a room for us. I was able to trade the mushrooms for a few day's stay as well as our meal tonight. Not too bad for a half day of mushroom hunting, I must say.”

"That's awesome!" Mike says with enthusiasm, bouncing to his feet. He does not seem even slightly embarrassed to be caught playing with a child's top, and sets it back on display with small bow and a mumbled 'thank you' in Japanese for the toy smith.

The trinket is quickly forgotten as he turns to Usagi. "Wow, those earned a lot more than I thought they would!" Back home, he's pretty sure a container of mushrooms only costs about four or five bucks at a grocery store. He tries to think about what it would cost to rent a motel room for several nights and go out to eat on top of that... yeah, those were some pricey mushrooms!

"What are they gonna feed us, do you think? Will there be fried stuff on a stick?" He jerks one thumb over his shoulder and beams innocently. "Cause, there's a guy with a cart back there? And he has _fried stuff on a stick_!"

Usagi’s eyes follow Mikey’s hand as he sets the top back onto the display he had plucked it from and gave the shinobi a kind smile, rolling his eyes lightly at the lad’s quip about food. “It is likely that the inn will have stew or something of that ilk for supper this evening. It is not an incredibly well-off establishment, though it will certainly taste better than plain rice and daikon.”

His eyes did however follow the path to which Michelangelo gestured with his thumb, focusing on the small Takoyaki **(fried octopus in dough)** stand. It was not often that he indulged in frivolous luxuries, such as the foods prepared by street vendors. He was quite content with sustaining himself on poor fare. However, he also kept in mind that this was Michelangelo’s first time in a city such as this and it would not do much harm to treat the boy.

The large sum of money which Leonardo had given him was tucked away in his pack and Usagi was determined to forget that they existed, which was proving to be a difficult --if not impossible task. Usagi did have, however, a few coins in his worn out coin purse which did not make him seethe when he thought about them. With another roll of his eyes and a small shake of the head the ronin stepped passed the young shinobi and lead the way to the stand, unlacing the dirty blue pouch from his belt.

When he was in front of the shopkeeper he politely greeted the cook and held up two fingers before digging a few copper coins out and tossing them onto the wooden counter. Within just a few moments he turned to Michelangelo and held out one of the sticks to him. “Enjoy it, I don't eat this way often.”

 

"I... I haven't had any junk food in so long!" Michelangelo holds the takoyaki up between them reverently. He actually looks a bit misty eyed, gazing at the simple treat. "I was gonna hit up the kitchen when I got home," he adds, a forlorn note coming into his voice, "But then I was so excited to see everybody... and then Leo was there, determined to pick a fight."

He tosses his head to shake off the melancholy thoughts. This is no time to be sad! Michelangelo fixes his eyes back on the treat. The vendor spoke quickly, and he has already forgotten the unfamiliar word he used. He has no idea what is inside this thing, having been too proud to ask, when the giant sign was painted clearly with the answer, hanging on the stall right in front of him.

Mike thought about asking Usagi, but he's rather enjoying the delicious anticipation of not knowing. He brings it closer and inhales, but can only smell the fried dough. It smells glorious. He closes his eyes, oblivious to all the world now except for his watering mouth and the mystery ball. Is it an onion? A fish cake? Is it cheese? He rather hopes it isn't a mushroom, or a radish, or rice, if only because he naturally craves variety. Actually, rice might be fine... Just the fact that I have a fried-thing-on-a-stick is amazing! It doesn't matter even a little bit what is inside!

Having worked himself into a proper fried-thing-on-a-stick eating frenzy, Mike devours the morsel in a single rapturous chomp.

"Hunf," Mike comments, still chewing, "Kina 'ike a corndah, buh..." Perhaps he suddenly realizes that he is eating like a barbarian, because he abruptly closes his mouth and swallows before concluding brightly, "Chewier! Loved it. Though... I kinda feel like if you tell me what it is, you're gonna ruin it for me."

Usagi held his own takoyaki up before taking a bite off of it, contentedly chewing on the fried octopus while watching Michelangelo savor his own treat. While he was a firm believer that one should not lust after food - it was an indulgence that could very well ruin both a warrior's purse and physique - he was glad to see the shinobi enjoy himself for a few moments after the upheaval he had experienced.

The ronin merely shook his head at the young turtle’s quip, deciding to not tell him what it was in the snack just in case the idea of eating octopus would make Michelangelo enjoy the snack less. Though… there was a part of him that thought that the idea of giving Mikey a startling experience with food would be excellent payback for what could only be described as the traumatic experience it was finding out exactly what the hot dog Mikey had fed him years ago was made from.

Usagi knew for a fact that octopus was something that was enjoyed on the shinobi’s planet though, having already shared this particular treat with Leonardo on many occasions in the past, but the thought of making up something far more strange was certainly tempting. Tempting, but not acted on.

The ronin began walking down the street, kicking up a bit of dust with his geta as he went, amaranth eyes scanning the storefronts. As he walked and munched on his takoyaki he would occasionally call back various professions to the turtle- smithy, potter, fisherman, stable keeper and so forth. After a few blocks of doing so he turned and asked curiously, “Seen anything you would like to try while we are here? We will need to earn some money for supplies, it might as well be a job you enjoy.”

"No smithing!" Michelangelo asserts with a note of concern. "I'm banned from smithing back home. That's Leo and Raph's thing. They've both tried to show me how, but they said I suck at it. You gotta get the timing just right and pay attention to getting it hot but not too hot, and listen for subtle sounds the metal makes when it quenches, and I just fail at all that. Every blade I ever tried to forge has warped or shattered."

Mike shrugs in a helpless 'what can you do' sort of way. He has never had any particular fondness for blades, so these failures don't trouble him. "I'm good at working with leather, though. And I've taken over the sewing, but I'm not as good at it as Splinter was..." More melancholy thoughts. He presses on quickly with, "Really, I'll do any of those other things. Making pots sounds awesome, I bet I would rock at it. And I'm already pretty good at fishing. I think I'd have starved by now if I wasn't. I don't have a proper pole or anything but I've got fishing line and hooks, which is more than I had when I was trapped in the Cretaceous. There I had to use animal guts and sharpened bones!"

He rambles on, not bothering to explain the meaning of the unfamiliar word. "And stable keeper? Huh, I dunno if horses dig me or not. I never rode one before. But I dig animals, and I could probably be down with, like, brushing tails and prying rocks out of hooves and stuff. Annnnd I would probably have to deal with poop. But, yanno... I used to live in a sewer! So how bad could it be?"

It amazes the ronin how even a mention of Leo’s name in passing could cause a fresh sting to his heart. He futilely tries to let it pass quickly, attempting to let himself become distracted in thought about what he would like to do to earn money in the next few days, which was quite the task. Taking a deep breath he thought to himself, _There is nothing to be done about Leonardo. Losing him is your karma. The best thing you can do for Leonardo now is help with Michelangelo’s trial. And we need to find some work. You cannot afford to let yourself become melancholy, Miyamoto._

As he looked at the store fronts he finished his takoyaki, but placed the stick in his mouth, absently chewing on the wood as he thought. When Michelangelo had finished speaking he replied distractedly, “I prefer to avoid stable work when I can, it can be a rather _unpleasant_ job, being covered in fur as I am. _I am sure you can imagine_.”

He made a thoughtful clicking sound with his tongue and added, “I am decent at pottery, that is something we could do. But I do very much prefer to try something new when I do take work…” The ronin let out a defeated sigh and with a shrug turned to the shinobi, “You know what? _You_ choose, my friend. I will go along with any decision you make, Mikey-san.”

"Poop shoveling it is!" Mikey crows, then holds up a hand and laughs. "I'm just playing. Well, how do we find out what work is even available? I don't want to get my heart set on something... so should we just go around and ask people? I guess there's not anything so convenient as a notice board in the middle of town with open job postings..."

Thus far, Usagi's Japan has proven to be a lot more difficult to master than your average RPG. Why should Niigata be any different?

 Usagi laughed along with Mikey, rolling his eyes once again at the shinobi’s near constant playfulness. In all honesty it was quite refreshing to have someone with a sense of humor as his company. Since Leo had ended the relationship with him - he tried desperately not to think ‘ _dumped me_ ’ - he had been isolating himself even more than usual, travelling often to places he knew that his typical friends and companions would have no business going. It had been a long time since he had laughed like this.

He shifted the stick of wood to chew on the other end which was not splintered from abuse and gave the shinobi a quick nod. “Hai **(yes)** , we will have to approach the shop keepers and ask if anyone has need to hire extra hands. Typically people are rather understanding about ronin looking for work and are respectful even if they must turn you away. Most of the time. But since the Shogun’s power was instituted and the wars for power mostly came to an end many samurai have found themselves jobless. Those who did not turn to banditry or other more nefarious professions often wander seeking work where they can get it. So you need not worry much about approaching people. Many will be expecting it the instant they see samurai enter their shop.”

"Dude, I don't worry about that! I love approaching people." Michelangelo sucks in his lower lip to chew on it for a moment before admitting, "Though they do seem kinda nervous when I do. I noticed I still get looks from people. I guess it's cause'... I'm not seeing a whole lot of turtles walking around, right? A couple people already asked where I was from, and I didn't know what to say so I just told 'em, 'haruka tōku' **(far away)**."

He tips his head to one side as he regards Usagi's stick curiously, then beams and holds up his. "You want mine too? It still has some fried crunchy bits on it." He waggles the stick temptingly, then presents it with a flourish.

Usagi had been nodding somewhat absently at the turtle’s brief explanation but when Michelangelo offered him the other stick was the first time that he really put thought into his own actions in that moment. Chewing things such as the splintered takoyaki stick in his mouth was a habit that the ronin had possessed since early childhood, one he had developed to stop him from biting at his claws when he was stressed. It was far better to take out the impulse on something other than one of his most useful natural defenses but for him it was a sure sign of how poorly he was handling the emotional upheaval of the last few days.

None the less he took the offered stick, giving a small shrug and a nonchalant excuse of, “Old habit...” before replacing the decimated stick in his mouth with the new one.

Quickly changing the subject he added, “Even here you will be seen as somewhat of an oddity, my friend. You are quite unique. There will be towns that will be more accepting, having grown used to your brother’s occasional appearance in years past, though mostly in the Gieshu province. I cannot say that this is a town that we frequented. It has somewhat of a seedy reputation, you see.

I would offer to do the speaking for us, it is not something that I am opposed to, however, it occurs to me that it could be quite the demonstration of humility as well as courage to move forward in the face of this sort of judgment of your race and offer your services anyway. I doubt it is what your council has in mind, but it seems as good as any place to start.”

"Uh... trust me," Mike chuckles. "This 'judgement' you speak of is _nothing_ compared to back home! Cause it's not like they are screaming and running away or attacking me, yanno? Nobody here wants to dissect me for science, either! So, it's all good. Better than good! I just wanted to make sure it was cuzza' me being... a unique creature, heh." Michelangelo likes that. He's not a freakish mutant, he's _unique_! "And not, you know, I got my obi tied wrong or my kimono's inside out or something."

In truth, Mike has pretty well mastered his pre-dawn minigame of getting dressed. He has not required further assistance from Usagi, and there have been no more tail mishaps. And while he has learned the proper name by now, he continues to refer to his hakama as anime pants. It seems to amuse him, even if the joke is lost on everyone but himself.

"Yanno, I keep hearing people talkin' about 'Matsuri'. I dunno who that is, but apparently they're super important! Maybe the lord in charge of this city or something? There's a guy making banners and flags for Matsuri, and the toy vendor back there doesn't need any help but he told me a guy down the street who wants help packing salted fish into barrels for Matsuri."

The ronin chuckled lightly as he continued to chew on his new stick and lightly responded, “Your obi is tied just fine, I assure you, Mikey-san. In fact, all of your wardrobe seems in proper order. You have caught on to the intricacies of these garments rather quickly.”

Usagi then scratched his chin thoughtfully for a few moments and looked around taking in the sight of the city mumbling, “I did not think it so late in the season yet for Aikawa to be upon us already… but I suppose, yes, it is about that time.”

He lifted his gaze back to his young companion and supplied, “Matsuri is not a person, but rather the Japanese word for ‘festival’. There is an island a few hours out from here, Sado Island, that hosts the Aikawa Matsuri every mid-Autumn. Mostly it is a parade of idols through the port city during the day, at sunset there is a release of lanterns into the harbor. The merchants are likely preparing their wares for the matsuri, which is good news for us because it almost insures work if we head down to the wharves and inquire with some of the fishmongers.”

"Holy shit, are you serious?" Michelangelo clearly expresses his delight at the prospect of the festival, even if his words make little sense. "We're about to do Tangled in feudal Japan? I am so down."

To show exactly how 'so down' he is -- a strange slang which Mike has previously insisted means 'extremely agreeable to a recent suggestion' -- Mike tugs the shamisen off his shell. It's been hanging there by a sad length of jute which is currently serving as the gorgeous instrument's carrying strap. He resituates the cord so that it runs crosswise and he can strum as he walks, and that's exactly what he procedes to do. Still treating it like a banjo rather than a shamisen, he fiddles with the tuning pegs for a moment before strumming a quiet harmony.

He must sing the song an octave lower to accommodate the natural range of his scratchy but on-pitch voice:

_All those days watching from the windows_  
_All those years outside looking in_  
_All that time never really knowing_  
_Just how blind I've been_  
_Now I'm here blinking in the starlight_  
_Now I'm here, suddenly I see_  
_Standing here, it's all so clear_  
_I'm where I'm meant to be_

Apparently his inner Southern Belle is quite keen to become his inner Disney Princess. It's a good thing Business Mike is here to veer things back on track.

"Sorry, I'm done," Mike laughs, oblivious to the varying levels of attention he has already drawn from onlookers with his foreign song. "Can't sing the next part, anyway. It gets mushy after that! And the point is, a _harbor full of lanterns_ , dude! Tangled in _real life_. Like, Tangled is a story back home about a princess who doesn't know she is one because she grew up totally sheltered in a little tiny tower, and she-- you know what? Nevermind all that. Because the POINT is, we have to see that!"

By now any curious eyes that lingered on Mike have returned to their original business. His huge blue eyes have gone starry and wobbly as he implores Usagi, "Dude, I will work so hard for you! I will monger some fish like _oh em fucking gee_ , just... just tell me we can go!"

The ronin’s attention focused solely on the eccentric shinobi before him, as did the attention of a handful of passersby around them as Leonardo’s shamisen was brought out and Michelangelo began singing, what seemed to many, to be a strange and foreign folk song.

As the turtle’s song comes to an end the ronin put his paws together a few times in a brief and quiet applause before smiling softly, “I see no reason that we could not attend the festival. It would seem that we will be here for it's duration anyway.”

Though he made the excuse of already being in town, truth be told, Usagi likely would have insisted they stay even if the matsuri were a few days out. There were few things that the samurai enjoyed In life more than a good festival.

He began walking in the direction of the wharves, gesturing for Michelangelo to follow, “Come along, then. We will want to find work straight away so that we are able to be somewhat frivolous during Aikawa. I assume that you will want to eat at the matsuri and probably purchase a lantern so we will have to earn some extra coin.”

"Hyessss!" Michelangelo makes a fist and pumps it in the air above him. He tries a victory power chord on the Jabanjo, but it totally doesn’t work. The sound jangles oddly, drawing distasteful glances. This time he does notice his onlookers and flashes his teeth at them sheepishly. "Whups, heh! Got carried away." Gosh, if Leo were somehow watching, he would probably have a heart attack. He could tell the moment he did that... these are NOT as strong as regular guitar strings. He silently vows to be more respectful of Leo’s gift and slides it back onto his shell carefully.

"I think the first thing I oughta buy, like before I even think about any more fried food, is a proper strap and maybe a case for this thing," Mike chatters as he strolls alongside Usagi. "Like, I don't even need the finished product. With enough raw leather, I could probably put something together myself and it would be way cheaper."

He frowns as he admits, "I don't want anything to happen to it. I mean, it would serve him right for giving it to me in the first place! But still."

The ronin nodded briefly at his companion as they walked along the bustling streets which were only getting more crowded as they approached the fisherman's wharves. He recalled something that Leonardo had said to him when they had their very heated conversation a few days earlier, that Michelangelo was “easier to handle” when he has something to entertain him.

The boy had been incredibly energetic and seemingly unfocused in the time they had together, but nothing that the samurai had found hard to handle. Yet it occurred to him that much of the shinobi he had seen was likely a front, using eccentricity and humor to cover up the deep and less pleasant emotions that he knew lay beneath the surface. Perhaps giving the lad a project, such as the construction of a case for the shamisen might help him to focus the excess energy.

As they moved from the well beaten dirt road of the town onto the labyrinth of rickety wooden pathways that made up the docks Usagi mused, “If you feel strongly about undertaking such a project I am certain you can find a way to make it happen. But for now, the task at hand must be to find work.” He gestured with a paw to the many fishermen scrambling about the docks, “So, my young friend, where should we begin?”

"Hey, that's a cool ship!" Mike enthuses, pointing like a typical American. He doesn't know it would be considered more polite to gesture with an open palm.

After a few seconds of admiring the ship he takes in enough details to realize, "Oh. But it's not a ship for fishing, is it?" He's noticed that it is not grimy with barnacles and fish guts like some of the other ships. Nobody onboard is fussing with nets. Even now, a lady in a fine kimono with her hair piled elegantly between her tufted ears is being helped out of her fancy traveling box and assisted up the gangplank. The assistance seems reasonable, considering she is rocking some crazy, impractically tall geta.

"Dude! How does she even walk in those?" he marvels.

Usagi had stopped mid stride to look in the direction that his companion was pointing, finally spotting the ornate palanquin and the beautiful woman who was exiting it. Though his personal tastes were for men the ronin was not blind to the fact that she was rather striking, the epitome of Geisha.

He turned to Michelangelo and gently used his paw to lower the turtle’s hand. With his other he gestured at her for a moment with an open palm, flashing a soft smile at the shinobi. “She is likely the consort for some Lord. She may have also been hired to _entertain_ some high society public official during the matsuri.”

The long eared samurai turned to fully face his companion and added, “Geisha are dedicated to their art. And what they do is most certainly an art. They are unlike common whores, well educated in art forms such as dance, painting, calligraphy, history and many others. As much determination and practice is put into their craft as you and I have dedicated to martial arts. She walks so gracefully in those geta because she has likely practiced countless hours and suffered many injuries to ensure that she can do so with dignity and grace. I would imagine that the ship belongs to whomever it is that she will be keeping company for the duration of the festival.”

Michelangelo flinches ever so slightly at the way Usagi says 'common whores', opening his mouth like he wants to speak up in defense of sex workers. He doesn't think of prostitution as a dishonorable profession and typically leaps at any chance to assert this. Mike has been rescuing streetwalkers from ugly situations since the tender age of thirteen. Some of them have been working their block for so long that they have become what Raph calls "frequent flyers" -- risk-taking individuals who have been aided often enough to lose their fear of mutant turtles.

His good friend Angel has been enduring a period of homelessness and turmoil since the death of her grandmother and legal guardian, and does what she has to in order to survive. It was the same with Danny after his dad tossed him out for being gay. At age fourteen, he didn't have many other options... at least, not until the Foot Clan approached him.

Mike is sure it would have been more honorable for Danny to have remained a "common whore".

But after that one comment, there is nothing else to complain about -- no opening from which to mount the soapbox. He winds up listening intently, wholly distracted from all thoughts of social justice as Usagi moves on to describe a wholly different creature - a respected entertainer and dignitary. "Oh," he says, a couple beats late. "So they're like Companions from Firefly!" he offers this brightly and inexplicably, only to wave off the comment off a moment later. "Sorry... another story from back home," he explains with a sigh. "It's not important."

Suddenly, as he thinks on what Usagi said about the geisha's footware struggles and potentially broken bones, a vivid memory comes back to him. Angel, squatting in some shithole in the Bronx, working under the table at a seedy strip club. She pulls out the sparkly, six inch high heels another girl loaned her, and eagerly proceeds to show him what she planned to add to her next routine.

 _Angel isn't respected like a geisha_ , he thinks with a note of regret, _but they aren't so different. That's kind of dancing! And the 'painting' she has done after-hours at train yards and underpasses is super dope. And okay, she probably don't know shit about history, but she even has calligraphy covered! Angel's handwriting is adorable._

"Okaaaay," he sighs, "She convinced me. The next time we make cam-- uh, I mean, sleep at the inn!" His grin re-emerges. A real bed! How awesome is that? God, how long has it been since that happened? "As soon as we are done fishing, you gotta give me back those geta. If she can pull off those monstrosities, I should totally be able to handle Leo’s cute wooden flip-flops."

Usagi watched his companion take in the sight of the geisha. He seemed to not only be taken in by her beauty but completely impressed with the young woman, as he should be. Her grace and charm radiated like heat from a flame, drawing in the gaze of onlookers as if they were moths. For many even her acknowledgement was something far beyond the achievable, which only served to increase the allure she possessed. The top of her ornate headdress disappeared beyond the polished railing of the ship, breaking the spell she had on many of those around him who returned to their mundane work, smiling wistfully at the thought of such company.

The ronin had tilted his head to the side, his long ears falling over his shoulder and his brow raising questioningly at the newest in a long line of references to a world beyond this one that fell from the turtle’s lips only bringing to him a sense of confusion. He could assume that the information that Mikey had given him was unimportant as far as their current situation was concerned, but with each mention of things from his world that the ronin did not comprehend, the curiosity he felt grew.

He was beginning to realize that Leonardo had shared with him very little about his own world - far more concerned was the youth with understanding Usagi’s. Miyamoto had always been so focused on giving Leonardo what he wanted that the thought had never occurred to him before. He had been content with learning whatever things Leonardo may want to teach him of his world and had certainly enjoyed his brief stay there with the lad - but there was so much he just did not know.

At the turtle’s second comment which roused him from the inner workings of his mind the samurai gave a brief nod. “You are certainly welcome to them. They were left for your use. I had been thinking of getting some new waraji **(straw sandals)** before winter is upon us and thought that you may enjoy those better than the geta, but I will certainly not deny you the opportunity to learn to walk in the geta. It can certainly hone your abilities of balance.”

"Just don't expect me to be any good at jumping in them," Mike warns for the second time. His ability to make impressive leaps is a particular source of pride for him. He certainly has proven himself adept at scampering through the treetops. Then again, there could be some specific, shoe-wearing-while-jumping mishap that sprung to mind because he goes on to add, "I would probably just embarrass me and everybody watching."

He turns his face into the wind rolling in from the ocean and scans the blue horizon, broken now and then by the varied shapes of ships floating further out in the harbor, going about their local business or sliding along steadily with the disciplined efforts of rowers. Somehow he expected to see more giant masts and billowing sails.

"These boats look nothing like what I pictured," he notes, though after just a moment's reflection he has no idea why they should. "Guess I'm not what you might call well-versed in naval history, right? Cause my brain was definitely picturing pirate ships." He looks over at Usagi and flashes a sunny smile that makes it hard to tell whether or not he is joking. "But, you know, like... more Oriental? With the wood bits all randomly carved into the shapes of dragons and samurai helmet goblins and shit?" He starts to point but quickly catches himself doing it. He pulls his hand back, rewinding the gesture with a cheerful, "Whups!" When he tries again, his palm upturns to indicate the vessel that has snagged his attention with a more appropriate -- though feminine and overly dramatic --flourish.

"Ta-da. So... fishing boat? Right?" He is seeing giant nets folded on the decks, and also fixtures on the rail where they might be braced. "One thing I been noticing is, all these boats are, like, medium to small. None of them are goin' on any long ocean voyages, yeah? Betchya the open sea would tear 'em up right quick!" His blue eyes widen with a kind of relish, like he enjoys being spooked by the thought. "Holy crap. This is gonna be like _Deadliest Catch: Edo Edition_ starring Usagi and Mike!"

The near constant state of confusion he felt while in conversation with his new companion prevailed now as well. The way that Michelangelo’s train of thought could so easily switch topics, simply abandoning a previous line of thinking was borderline exhausting for the ronin who had, for many years now, lived a life of almost exclusive solitude, yet he also found it to be. A pleasant change for him. Too long had he spent with only his own thoughts for company.

He looked across the dock, eyeing the meager fishing and crabbing vessels that had made port for the night, preparing to sail out once again the morning - yet many more remained in the bay and further out to sea, obviously less fortunate than these who had already caught their fill. “These boats belong to peasants and local merchants. People who cannot afford the lavish decorations such as the vessel which we saw the geisha board. Many ships of lords, as well as warships are more akin to that which I believe you to be picturing in your mind’s eye.”

The long eared ronin began to walk once again, fairly certain that if he did not prompt them forward it was likely that his new found friend would find another in the countless distractions that lay before them. He came upon a small shop on the dock where an elderly fishmonger and his wife were frantically packing salted fish into barrels which were sealed and rolled back onto their small boat, “Now, this looks promising. What do you think Mikey-san? Want to offer our services to these folk?”

"But... that's not fishing. That's fish storing. Fish barrelling?" Mike ponders for a moment, not completely satisfied with either term. Then he shrugs it off and declares, "I dunno. My point is, they already did the fishing part."

The turtle regards the hard-working peasants for another moment or two. Perhaps he is starting to see why Usagi singled them out, because he suddenly sympathizes, "I guess they DO look pretty stressed out. Maybe good fish barrelers are hard to find?"

Usagi chuckled briefly at the turtle’s initial disdain at the thought of packing up the fish. Truly, Usagi had thought of helping this couple because of their advanced age and the fact that unlike many others on the docks, these two had no extra hands for help. While he was certainly interested in earning the coin they needed the notion of helping those who looked as though they could use it most prevailed over the more lucrative options available.

He gave a shrug and supplied thoughtfully, “They may need help fishing In the morning. Or they may want to cast out again this evening when these fish are packed away. Who knows?” At the second comment the ronin turned and answered in a quieter voice, “It once was that many of these jobs were taken by foreign fishermen, sailors coming into port and the like. However…. Foreign relations are strained at this time… actually… forbidden. Even speaking to a foreigner can earn one a sentence of death, lest it be by official government sanction. Thus… many workers for jobs like these have been depleted. Few really remain that are skillful or willing to take the risk that fishing on the open ocean provides.” he flashed a mischievous smile at the shinobi and added, “Also I would advise being wary of just how far away you insinuate you are from. We would not want people to assume you are European.”

Michelangelo seems to take this new information very seriously. The grin wipes off his face and he looks down, deducing slowly, "That's why you want me to dress like this. And that's how come, when I was talking to people earlier... some conversations got real awkward suddenly. Like, it was time to buy something or move along..."

He gives Usagi a steady look of concern that lends him about a decade of maturity. "I'm putting you in danger," he states flatly. "Every moment we spend together. All the people I meet here, they -- they might get _killed_ for talking to me."

The look that the young shinobi gave him was one that sent a chill down his spine. The shift in his demeanor made him resemble his older brother more so in that moment than he had the entirety of his time in the ronin’s company. It was rather unnerving. But far more concerning to him were the feelings that had been riled up within the terrapin warrior. Legitimate concerns that honestly should have been brought up long before this point. He reached out and grasped Mikey’s hand, casually leading him to a somewhat more private alley before turning to address him.

The rabbit lay a hand on Michelangelo’s shoulder and tilted his head upward to look the boy in the eyes. The look of resolution and firmness that he gave was unwavering, trying to steal the boy away from his spiralling thoughts of uncertainty by being absolutely sure in that moment. “Mikey-san, you are not putting me in danger. Right now, being in my company is much more likely to bring you trouble than your presence is going to cause any problem for me. The attire you wear belonged to your brother and at a glance you will likely be recognized as him by anyone that truly matters. It has long been known that Lord Noriyuki often employs a foreign turtle warrior. We even have official paperwork on the matter.

In my pack I have a small note with Noriyuki’s seal, giving Leonardo permission to walk the lands with Noriyuki’s blessing. Until we get to the Geishu province and can get something of the like for you, on paper you will simply have to pass as Leonardo.”

"Okay. Okay." Mike bobs his head repeatedly, because that sounds better. He is not a wandering death sentence. He will not have to skulk and hide. He just has to... lie. Lie and tell people he is Leo. It's not an ideal solution, obviously, but it's better than it sounded just a moment ago. Mikey assures himself that he can work with this. It will be okay.

"Sure would suck for Leo if I end up doing something stupid while I'm pretending to be him," the turtle drops his eyes and scowls at the sandy gravel. "Hopefully I don't screw up his reputation, or - or give him a criminal record, _though it would totally serve him right..._ " This last bit is mumbled from the side of his mouth as one arm crosses his chest and hooks on his bicep, his posture suddenly defensive and tense.

Mike is still so very ticked at Leo -- but that was _ugly_. Plus, he knows better. Maybe he didn't retain even half of what he read-slash-skimmed of Leo's Bushido books, but he did gather that honor and loyalty are a super big deal to samurai. These people guard their reputations above everything else other than their lord.

"Yo, I'm sorry," he flinches with shame. "I'm not actually gonna... not on purpose. That would be fucked up and evil. I'm just saying, well, if you think you bring danger into people's lives -- and I'm a trouble magnet, Usagi-san. Sorry if, uh, nobody prepared you for that? But maybe after the festival we oughta... head to the Geishu province, is all I'm saying. I am so down for not being Leo any more. Like, as soon as we can reasonably make that happen."

As Michelangelo absorbs the information which was given to him Usagi breathed a small sigh of relief knowing that it was being well received. While it was not an ideal situation it was certainly better than the alternative of having he and Michelangelo jailed and executed. Far better.  
  
Usagi gave the boy an understanding smile. He certainly had no ill will towards Leonardo, far from it. He was mad and hurt, yes, but never would he wish anything bad to happen to him or his reputation. However, he did not think that it was his place in the slightest to tell his brother how to handle his own anger with the young jonin. Better to let Michelangelo vent to him verbally when negative thoughts entered his mind than to let him bottle it up until later it burst from within him along with the possibility of poor decisions.

He held out a hand and gripped Mikey’s forearm, giving him a gentle and reassuring squeeze. “You need not apologize to me, friend. I understand that feelings are still high. But I do agree wholeheartedly. I believe that the trek to the Geishu province should certainly be made a priority after we experience this brief reprieve of travel. I, too, would like to not have to hide your identity behind the guise of Leonardo-sama any longer than we must.”

Michelangelo breathes out a sigh of pure relief when Usagi agrees that they should head to the Geishu province soon. He's also just glad not to be chastised.

"Thanks," he says quietly, flashing a humble and rather grateful smile.

Then humility is tossed right out the window as Mike the Performer takes the stage again. "Course, _Onii-san_ **(big brother)** may wind up with a rep for having WAY better fashion sense than he does currently," he notes thoughtfully. "And a sense of humor. People's whole perception of him in general will be a lot more awesome by the time we get to the Geishu province." He gives Usagi a what-can-you-do shrug. "Sometimes these things just can't be helped."

The terrapin displays his broad teeth in an impish smile meant to reveal that he is joking. Then he nudges the ronin with his elbow before striding back out of the alley and calling over one shoulder, "C'mon, Usagi-san! We got hella fish to store! Dude, it's like, we're never gonna earn any coin if you don't learn to focus..."

The ronin smiled briefly but he had to admit that he did not know quite what Mikey had meant. He had always thought that Leonardo’s sense of fashion was exquisite. The kimono which the youngest of the Hamato clan now wore was nothing short of beautiful. The deep blue paired with the striking black hakama was a perfect compliment to Leo… and Mikey’s eyes, making the blue orbs bright and vibrant in contrast to the green scales of the terrapin warriors.

Though he does have to admit that his companion’s sense of humor was certainly much more outward in nature than Leo’s. But even at that he had found that Leonardo used to have a great sense of humor. Often times they had found themselves lost in bouts of laughter so intense that it caused an ache in his gut and made his breath come to him in gasps. Though the nature of their jokes seemed, to him, to definitely be of a different nature than what Michelangelo would find amusing.

What would this turtle care if a bandit tried to parry an attack with the edge of his blade rather than using a sweeping motion to deflect the attack with the flat of his katana?

The ronin raised a brow as he was nudged by the turtle, quickly followed by a disbelieving shake of his head at the words which left his young companion. With a roll of his eyes he followed after the terrapin calling after the boy, “My apologies. I shall try to be less distractible.”

“Yes. _See that you do_ , good sir,” Mike tries for some voice of haughty authority, but just winds up laughing and shakes his head at Usagi. “If I get to be too much for you, you can smack the back of my head. It’s okay, I’m pretty used to it.”

His stride is quick, but then it slows as he sees the couple just up ahead. Michelangelo realizes that he has no idea what to say to them and looks over at Usagi. “You can do the talking, right? You got experience hooking up work, and I’ll probably fuck it up. Plus I’m a scary green foreigner with medium-to-suck Japanese speaking skills. There are so many reasons, really.”

Usagi had begun following behind Mikey, chuckling along with the turtle when he playfully bantered back at him. When he made mention of smacking him the ronin replied with a laugh, “I do not think that will be necessary, I only smack students for being _too much_.”

He came to a stop next to the turtle just a small distance from the shop they had decided to offer their services to. He made a show of dramatically rolling his eyes and waving off what Mike had said as nonsense but quickly flashed him a smile and made his way to the shop.

Within just a few moments the ronin had struck up a conversation with the fishmonger as though they had known each other their whole lives, leaning against a barrel casually as he chatted in rapid Japanese. The merchant seemed to take a liking to him and soon their work was secured. He rolled up the sleeves of his kimono and set himself to work, gesturing for Mikey to follow his lead. The work is not the most pleasant that he had ever been privileged to undertake and he is certainly not a fan of the way that the smell of salted fish clings to the fur of his paws and forearms, but regardless of that fact - he is thankful to be able to have work at all.

The process is simple enough. The various types of fish, largely tuna and salmon, are sorted by their species and filleted. Once rubbed thoroughly with salt they are pressed between two sheets of nori **(seaweed)** and then stacked into the barrels. With a hammer they would seal them tightly before rolling them onto the ship which will bare the goods to the festival later on in the evening. Though only half of the goods are packaged as such, the other fish are kept whole and stored within the cooler hull of the ship to be used for sushi and sashimi which is, apparently a specialty of the fishmonger, Kaito.  
  


Michelangelo doesn’t actually hate the work, nor is he bad at it. The smell is strong, but no worse than walking alongside a wastewater canal in the peak of summer. The variety of the tasks suit him, not to mention the structure of having a shrewd fishmonger’s wife looking over his shoulder. It’s a little unnerving at first, but admittedly helpful for keeping him on-task. Mike is slightly in awe of Usagi’s fish filleting skills. He tries hard to make his fish look at least passable, but he thinks they look quite mangled -- especially when viewed beside the older ronin’s neat stacks of uniformly sliced pink flesh.

That’s not to say he is completely serious in his foray into fish mongering. There is one point where he can’t seem to stop humming a silly, repetitious song under his breath, something about eating fish heads. Fish are tossed into the barrels from a semi-impressive distance for a time, though the fun only lasts until his first miss, at which point Kaito’s wife has had quite enough of the game. There is even a brief period where they are left unsupervised, during which a large salmon is suddenly brandished at Usagi in an impromptu seafood-wielding duel. A duel which Mike soundly loses. When the husband and wife return, the pair are innocently working side by side once again.  
  
By the time that they had packed up the last of the catch and were given their small purse of coin for the day’s work the ronin had shed his outer kimono, leaving him to work in his much thinner yukata. But even with the loss of the outer layer his fur glistened from the sheen of sweat which he had worked up.

The sun was hanging in the Hour of the goat **(a few hours before sunset)** above their heads as they walked once again onto the bustling street of Niigata. The samurai peeked into the purse he had been given and made a quick count of the coin. He weighed options in his head for a few moments before turning to his companion. “I think we should find a bath house before we go to the festival. I feel as though I have gone from ‘ _filthy ronin_ ’ to ‘ _certainly offensive, disgusting ronin_ ’. Would you be alright with another of my _endless distractions_?”

 “Yes, dude. Hell yes,” Mike enthuses. He extends his arms in dismay, holding the fingers upward and slightly clawed as he complains, “I feel like my arms got pickled! Hey, remember earlier when I was bragging about my fashion sense? Well, apparently this season’s hot new look is ‘covered in fish guts’. Hah, I’m pretty sure I gotta glob of intestines or something squishing between my toes right now.”

Michelangelo’s enthusiasm falters for a moment as he looks over and adds, “But I bet there’s a lot of rules to bath houses. Like, uh… etiquette? You guys got a lotta... etiquette stuff, I been realizing. So there’s probably like a no pointing rule, right? But, for naked people.”

The ronin had turned and began walking them towards the baths in the center of town, chuckling lightly at the newest in a long line if questions about his world. He gave a noncommittal shrug and advised, “Truly, as long as you are not being lewd you will be fine. I understand that bathing is a very solitary experience in your home which is quite different than how things work here.”

He began to untie the small purse he had from his belt as they approached the ornate gate that dominated the entrance to the bath house and added, “Here, bathing is very much a social activity. Everyone is equal in a bath house, from radish farmer to Lord. If there is someone you feel like striking up a conversation with then it will more than likely be well received, though there are those who remain sour and even a hot bath won't rinse away their foul disposition.”

Usagi happily paid the few coins it took to get them into the baths, following after an elderly woman in a kimono who showed them where the men could bathe, their portion of the man made hotspring divided from the women’s by a tall wooden partition.

Without a second thought the samurai began peeling away the layers of clothing still on him, folding the cloth and placing his daisho atop them at the edge of the pool, sitting upon a low wooden stool with a large bamboo bucket between his feet. Using a smaller bucket he dumped the steaming water over his head before washing his arms and chest in the water.

Mike feels slightly embarrassed at first to be interacting with such clean and courteous attendants in such a grimy state. The older woman who leads them to their section of the baths is no exception. Her kimono seems very tidy and fine compared to his own. In spite of having accepted Usagi's help in tying his sleeves up earlier as a precaution against getting them too dirty, he then proceeded to throw himself into the business of fishmongering with all of his considerable energy and enthusiasm. From that point on he had given very little thought to staying tidy. Are fish guts hard to get out of whatever fabric his kimono is made of? Even though he currently does much of the sewing for the family, they are sort of at the mercy of what they can scavenge. Mike has always been spoiled by the presence of these helpful little tags humans sew onto their clothes that tells him exactly what it is made of and how it should be laundered. Naturally, his big brother's very authentic samurai get-up does not have any tags like that. Mike sincerely hopes he hasn't already managed to soil Leonardo's clothes beyond all redemption!

True, he does not love Leonardo’s traditional and conservative apparel... and especially not those two particular dark and tiresome colors. _Black and blue... always black and blue these days._ Mikey believes his dear brother's sense of style lately has all the good health and cheer of funeral garb and fresh bruises. Even so, it was not his intention to ruin anything. The clothes haven't even been in his care for very long...

Michelangelo lets Usagi do all of the talking and hangs back even after the transaction is done, still working himself into a proper fret about the sad state of the borrowed clothes. At one point he'd even slipped on the wet planks of the shallow fishing boat, and landed hard on his ass in a foul and murky stew of skewered fish bits and bilge water. Entirely his own fault, of course, for trying to fly over the slippery planks at a reckless speed.

It occurs to Michelangelo that, had he been dressed more typically -- which is to say, not at all -- all this liquid fish slime would have rolled right off his skin. He could have brushed off the worst of it, splashed himself practically clean with nothing but sea water, and been none the worse than when they'd started. Living where they do, that slippery skin is a trait he and his brothers take advantage of quite regularly. It is a simple benefit, and something they all tend to take for granted.

Michelangelo feels the full discomfort of being damp and disgusting, especially now that it is starting to dry. The fabric has become stiff and abrasive in some places, sticky and clinging in others. He pulls one of his pant legs away from his skin in distaste and glances at the steaming water with longing. It surprises the turtle to look over and see that his companion is already getting undressed with the older woman still standing there. He did just hear Usagi tell him that bathing is a social event rather than a private one, and it helps to explain why she isn't freaking out or even hurrying from the room.

 _Why IS she still here, anyway_? he suddenly wonders, turning fully around to face the lady in the pretty kimono. It is not in the same league as the geisha's, of course, because that right there was some 17th century hot couture. But it's nice, just the same, and has a far more interesting pattern than his anyway, and only after a beat or two spent admiring it does Mike consider that she is _still standing there_ , and what gives? Does she want a tip? Probably not. Surely Usagi would have handled it promptly if that were the case.

The young shinobi looks into the old woman's face and it finally registers that she is a rat. Something inside him opens up to her at that realization. He has read descriptions in books which suggested that humans associate "ratlike" features with shady, untrustworthy, even malicious or cruel individuals, but to him the very opposite is true. Their eyes meet, and suddenly new feelings are blooming inside of him. Her eyes are calm and kind, but suddenly his chest is filling up with alien concerns: a growing worry of having offended people, or -- things not being rad enough, worrying you are being insensitive to cultures. Like usual he is overwhelmed by it, his thoughts turned around. He gets what is happening to him almost right away. It has happened often enough before, after all. but that doesn't make being in the thick of it any less scary and disorienting.

 _Aww fuck_ , he is thinking at first as he staggers back and touches his temple reflexively, as if his head were being assaulted by physical rather than psychic discomfort. _Never opened my mouth once, and I still somehow managed to be offensive and weird to this nice lady_?

At this point the gracious rat bows to him and asks him something in Japanese, and he mostly comprehends that she is asking if the bath will be acceptable. All at once his perception rights itself, the truth leaping out of the jumbled chaos. The sensation reminds him of those magic eye pictures... Don had a small collection of them plastered on the wall beside his bed for while, back when the four of them were little enough to be content with sharing a single bedroom. The true picture is suddenly revealed, and he understands that he had it backwards. He has not been rude to her -- rather their host is concerned that the reverse may be true. She thinks there must be some problem with the bath, or perhaps there is some foreign courtesy that she has failed to observe, because.... oh, of course! Because he has not started to undress, nor made any move towards entering the bath.

She speaks to him in Japanese that he is mostly able to understand. He's being addressed as a customer, which changes the conjugation a bit because Japanese is a bitch like that, but he gathers that she is making sure that he is cool with the accommodations. "Ahh... er... Ureshii! **(I'm happy)** " he stumbles at first in his efforts to form a smooth reply, as his desire to reassure the attentive grey-whiskered woman outpaces his limited vocabulary. "Onsen, uh... onsen-ga, daisuki-desu, **(The bath... I really like the bath)** " he finally settles on, and flashes her a friendly smile. "Sumimasen..." **(sorry)** he begins, but fails to summon any further words that might help him specify that he is sorry for being so covered in filth. After an awkward hesitation he gives up and gestures with his hands to indicate his nasty clothes.

She does seem to understand, and favors him with a warmer smile as she assures him that he was wise to visit the onsen. She thanks them both again and bows a final time before backing away from them respectfully, her bare feet walking in reverse rather than showing her back to them.

Only once she is gone from sight does Mike start peeling off his nasty clothes. "Uh, sorry 'bout that," he mumbles, still feeling a bit unnerved by the recent experience -- but also there is a huge sense of relief. It's over. His feelings are entirely his own again. Mike knows that situation could have gone much worse than it actually did.

The terrapin's gaze lingered in the general direction of the woman's departure at first, but he seems to relax when she does not reappear and drags his gaze back towards Usagi. He is surprised to see that his companion has not been idle during these distractions, which is to say that the long-eared ronin is a lot more naked than Mike had mentally prepared for. "Oh, sorry!" he apologizes automatically, freezing and quickly averting his eyes from the intriguing furry... pouch? There was something furry and unexpected going on down there, anyway, and he did not mean to look, but he did look.

Almost immediately, Mike feels keenly stupid for having such a childish reaction. "Sorry, I know, it's cool!" he hastes. He is still bright red and his voice is pitched a little bit higher than usual, but he puts his palms up and manages to laugh about it. "Because this is a social thing and totally normal," he declares sagely as he hurries to catch up, depositing his discarded clothes near the pile of Usagi's things. "Just a couple of bros. You know, hanging out. Taking naked baths together. No big thing! So, uh... buckets? What is the deal with those? Baths back home don't really involve buckets anymore. Like, if they ever did. Maybe in the pilgrim times or whatever? Dunno, I suck at history."

Usagi had paid no heed to the interaction which Michelangelo engaged in with the bath worker, too consumed was he in removing bits of fish from the fur on his forearms. He only turned his attention away from the task at hand when the young terrapin addressed him directly. His head had tilted to the side a bit as the shinobi turned a curious shade of red and began to fumble over his words.

As Mikey spoke it dawned on him that it was his own state of undress that was causing this reaction in his companion. The older warrior smirked as he replied, “Michelangelo-san, I am surprised that you would be so unnerved. After all, you and your clan are always practically nude.” With a chuckle and a shake of the head as he went back to washing himself he added, “I shall try to keep my nudity to a minimum in the future.”

As the ronin stood from his wash bucket and headed toward the man-made spring he gestured toward another stool and explained, “You wash first in there so that when you get into the bath that is shared with everyone you do not soil the water. No one else wants the fish on them either.”

His face still aflame, Michelangelo doesn't manage to formulate a prompt or clever response to any of that. He ducks his head and sits on the stool to start the pre-wash that is expected of bathers.

Only after a minute or so of slopping cool water over his green skin does it occur to him to refute some of what Usagi had said to reassure him, "Look, you don't gotta... change how you normally do things. I mean, I'd rather just get used to the way things are here, you know? I'm the one who should be keeping an open mind, and anyway, you -- you look _great_! So ..."

 _Ohmigod, you did not just -- geez, Mike_! The blushing Shinobi tries desperately tries to shift the subject. "Anyway. I know it's dumb, cuz -- yeah, my brothers and I don't wear a whole lot. But, it's like... _everyone else does_ , you know? Cuz everybody else keeps their bits on the outside. People check me out, and they can't see shit. They probably got no idea where my junk even is. They think I'm like a Ken Doll... er, that's like a boy doll they make for little human girls to play with, but if you take his clothes off, he don't got nothing between his legs, he's just smooth down there..."

 _Oh yeah, dude. Good job_ , Mike is chastising himself as he sets the bucket down and lowers an experimental foot into the water. _Let's just fixate on penises some more. That will totally make this bathing experience more comfortable for everybody._

From his position in the hot water Usagi threw his head back in laughter at the terrapin’s clumsy compliment. The way that Michelangelo handled almost every situation was so different from how his brother had acted during his first extended stay in Usagi’s world. Leo had treated his first time in a bath house with even more reverence than the rest of the congregation, taking the ritualistic purification of body and mind so seriously that many had thought him to be a monk of some sort.

But he found that he did not mind at all the lighthearted and fumbling way that Mikey was adjusting to how things were done here, the near constant humor and energy made it hard to focus on his own woes for long stretches of time even if they reared their head frequently these days.

The long eared samurai turned his head to consider his companion who was easing himself into the bath. “ _Thank you_ …?” With a chuckle he added, “You look good as well, even if you do resemble one of these ‘Ken dolls’ at first glance… And you need not worry, I understand the initial shock, seeing as I am typically wearing an exorbitant amount of clothing… Which desperately needs to be washed before we leave. Did you save enough water in your bucket to clean your outfit? If not we can simply pay for an additional bucket to clean clothes.”

"Uh. There should be some left," Michelangelo recalls, pausing to lean in the direction of the buckets and craning his neck out to make sure he isn't mistaken. He hadn't known there was any reason to preserve it. But once the clothes were off, cleaning off with the buckets was a simple matter -- Usagi needed to use twice as much water, and mostly just to clean his arms. It occurs to Mikey that some aspects of being covered in fur must be a pain in the fluffy tail.

There is some clean water left, the turtle notes, but when he looks over at his sodden pile of clothes, the sight fills him with fresh doubt. "Yeah, we might want that extra bucket after all," he reports. "Plenty to get your stuff washed, though. "My stuff is, uh... kinda more wrecked than yours. I didn't really notice until after I was gross. I guess you were a lot more careful."

That's probably an understatement, even if it is one which has only just occurred to Mike. Now he thinks back on the serene and steady way that the ronin had worked throughout the day, never taking messy shortcuts or showing off. The difference shows in the state of their clothes. Mike's clothes had been much newer in appearance than Usagi’s threadbare and too often mended garments, but now they are far more filthy.

"Oh... man, that feels good," Michelangelo sighs once he has returned to the business of lowering himself completely into the warm bath. "It's been so long, I think I forgot what bathing in hot water feels like." He stretches his legs out and wiggles his toes under the water, then lets his limbs hang buoyant.

Peeking over at Usagi, Mikey observes, "Y'know... now that I think about it, you didn't even get messy during our fish battle." He brings a hand up out of the water briefly to tap twice on his lower lip before feigning realization. "Oh! Right! It's probably cuz I would have to _actually land a hit on you first,_ right?" He flashes a wry grin through the rising steam, but there is also a healthy appreciation for the long-eared ronin's performance in that look.

Mike might lose a battle for any number of reasons, but being too slow to hit his opponent is usually not the reason. It is actually somewhat intriguing.

The samurai gave a nod of acknowledgment, he knew that he had used the majority of his own water, so the need for more was very likely. But for now he was content to simply soak in the warm water, his road weary feet very much thanking him for it.

Michelangelo lowered himself into the pool next to him, his own reaction seeming to mirror the ronin’s internal dialogue. When the lad commented about the small spar they had with the fish a small, smug grin appeared on Usagi’s face. It only lasted a moment before the ronin cheekily replied, “Better luck next time, my friend.”

He stretched his own legs beneath the water watching the steam rise before him, laughing to himself for a moment. He looked over to his friend with a cocked brow and said while still chuckling, “Truthfully the advantage was mine. It was not the first time I engaged in fish based combat. I once cleared an entire band of ruffians of a fish shop that gave me employment with nothing more than an octopus in one hand and a salmon in the other.”

"Are you serious?" Michelangelo is not sure yet if Usagi is pulling his leg, but he _wants_ to believe! He gazes down at the rippling surface of the water and tries to picture Usagi thwacking bad guys upside the head with a giant salmon or swinging a bundle of wet tentacles over his head like a flail.

"Because if you are, I don’t just want to _hear_ that story," Michelangelo explains. "I'm pretty sure I wanna immortalize it forever in comic book form!"

It was not the first time Michelangelo had mentioned these comic books to him, paper novels filled with pictures regaling the adventures of heroes and villains which he was very fond of. The ronin shook his head with a mildly amused chuckle, “Of course I am serious, my friend. There was a band of men hired by a competing fish merchant that were sent to wreck my employer's stand and product. I did not have my swords, so I improvised.” With a soft smile he added, “Though I fear your effort would be wasted, I doubt that anyone would find a comic book about me very interesting.”

The rabbit chuckled once more at the ludicrous idea of him being immortalized in novels before reaching upward and deftly uniting the top knot around his ears, letting them hang loose for the first time In weeks so he could properly wash them.

So It was from a position with his head tilted down to have an ear almost entirely submerged that he once again spoke to the turtle, “If we hurry with the bath and washing our clothes we can still get the dinner we paid for at the inn before we go to the festival.”

Michelangelo watches the ear-washing process with mild interest. Not having ears himself, he has no idea what sort of maintenance and upkeep they require. He's pretty sure humans use white sticks with fluffy bits on the end to clean their ears, though this sounds like an unpleasant procedure and one which he has never been able to see in action. Even during the brief time April was staying at the lair, she was always rather private about her hygiene routines.

"Hurry up with bathing... dang," he comments with regret. "On the one hand, I feel like I could stay in here all day. But on the other hand... food! And on the third hand -- cause apparently this is an alien creature we are using to count, with more than two -- a festival, dude! So, okay! That's two hands in favor of hurrying the fuck up. My bros are always saying I take too long in the bathroom anyway."

Mike looks around for reasons to hang out in the comfortable water and sighs when he can come up with none. He's basically already clean. There's no reason to delay further other than how good it feels to soak after days spent travelling on foot to Niigata. "Um... sure. Ready to go whenever you are," he announces wistfully. "But first, if you felt like telling me about why you didn't have your swords, I am pretty curious about that."

They have not been traveling together for very long, but it's still been long enough for Mike to have gathered that Usagi's swords are kind of a big deal to him.

After his ears have been washed the ronin ties them back up, even though they are still incredibly wet and moves to exit the pool of water. As he picks up his little bundle of clothes he casts a longing glance at the steaming water, truly he could have stayed in there all night long. But the pair of them had things to do and it was high time that they get to it.

It did not take him very long to wash all of the clothing that he had in a fresh bucket of water which he would pay for on the way out. There were a few times during the process that he feared that his old, weather worn and frayed kimono would simply disintegrate in his paws, but the fabric decided to give him at least one more wash before he had to give up on it. As he went about his task he replied to Mikey with a shrug, “The merchant had asked that I not have them on my person. It creates more of an intimidating image to have an armed samurai behind your counter and that can get you less business. Yagi No Eda and Aoyagi were under the counter, but I already had the fish in my hands.”

He wrung out the fabric the best that he could but the clothing was still quite damp when it was put again onto his body. It did not take long for the slight chill in the late autumn breeze to make itself known to the soggy ronin who recognized the few things he had not taken into account when planning this out. There was nothing that could be done about it now though, he would simply have to endure with his wet fur and wet clothing and hope that he did not catch his death on the ferry ride across the narrow strip of sea between Niigata and Sado.

Looking up at Michelangelo the ronin gestured to himself with a chuckle, “I did not think this through all the way. Let us hurry to the inn, perhaps they will have a fire in the hearth that can help dry me at least a little.”

"Yeah, uh..." Mikey lifts his sopping clothes out of the washtub with a sigh. "I guess this is as clean as they are gonna get."

While he had genuinely wanted to hear the rest of the story, it had also been a stall tactic. And in the latter sense, it did not work at all. He tries to wring out the clothes, but keeping Usagi's request for a speedy departure in mind, he doesn't do a very thorough job.

"Ugh," Mike comments once the undershirt has been pulled over his head and he is fighting to get his arms through the wet and twisted sleeves. Man, he really doesn't want to wear this. He secretly hopes they don't have to be fish storers again any time soon. The work itself wasn't bad, but this is nasty. He shakes out the hakama and a bit of scales and skin goes flying as the fabric snaps.

"Well, at least it's black, yeah?" he suggests, always one to look on the bright side. He gives it a few more shakes and starts singing under his breath as he drags the rest of his bedraggled clothes on, "Blaaack socks, they never get dirty. The longer you wear them, the blacker they get. Sooomething keeps telling me 'wash them', but something else tells me, 'no, don't do it yet, not yet, not yet'..."

"Ta-da!" Mike stands up straight and looks himself over. "Passable? Maybe? Hey -- it'll be fine, Usagi-san! If you get cold during the boat ride, you can cuddle with me." He beams at Usagi and spreads his arms in mock invitation. Water drips from the hems of his pants and kimono sleeves and hits the tatami mats with a patter, as if to punctuate the ridiculousness of his suggestion.

The ronin had wrapped his arms firmly around himself, leaning up against an ornate post as Michelangelo finished his laundering, chuckling as he listened to the boy's song. The tune sounded to him to be something that Gennosuke might find quite entertaining.

When the shinobi had finished washing the clothing, which had gotten into a state that could not be described as anything short of disgusting, Usagi watched with an amused grin as his companion struggled to renegotiate them back onto his body and finally won the battle.

He let out a soft chuckle as he turned to make his way out of the bath house, calling over his shoulder, “Don't tempt me, Michelangelo-san.”

"It's not my fault, yo!" Mike exclaims as he hurries after the ronin. "I don't mean to be so irresistible. I was born that way!"

The turtle matches Usagi's brisk pace, just as eager to be out of the chill autumn air. There are far less people milling about in public. He can only presume that because business has mostly concluded for the day, everyone has either gone home or already migrated to Sado for the Aikawa Festival.

The inns are still open and lively however. Michelangelo immediately feels warmer at the chorus of merry conversations that wash over them upon entering. Of course, the crackling fire in the hearth probably doesn't hurt either. He skims the tables near the fire, but at a glance they all appear occupied. Mike starts towards an empty table further off, but suddenly halts and glances back towards the fire. "I think those two are leaving soon," he observes quietly to Usagi. "He just made her really mad."

Usagi chuckled lightheartedly at the turtle’s response, shaking his head as they quickly exited the bath house, paying the extra coin for the additional bucket of water they had used for their clothes, which honestly drew an amused glance from the old woman who had led them to their baths. The long eared ronin merely shrugged in response before he and his companion made their way out into the chilly autumn air.

By the time that they had reached the inn Usagi was beginning to think that wearing a fish covered kimono may have been a better option, especially since all of the tables near the roaring fire were already taken by other patrons. He had turned to follow Mikey who seemed to spot one of the seats near the back of the inn but stopped abruptly behind him when the shinobi pointed out the couple who had, indeed, begun to argue.

The ronin watched the exchange carefully, apparently the man had been caught frequenting some of the brothels in town and his intended did not appreciate the news. She certainly had a colorful vocabulary and seemed to use the full extent of it before standing from the table and storming from the building. The man rushed, pleading, after her. A part of him wanted to follow after them to insure that neither of them came to harm, but neither of them had shown any violent intent and the militia was quite active tonight with the festival beginning. So, for once, he let it go, contenting himself to warm by the fire they had abandoned, while keeping an ear perked for any sign of trouble from outside.

The fire was lovely and warm. The ronin held his hands out to better heat them and smiled softly as they waited for the inn keeper’s daughter to come around so that they could order some stew and tea.

Michelangelo sits across from Usagi and tries to look less excited than he actually feels at the prospect of openly sitting down in an establishment like this and being served like any other customer. There have been a few times where he has come to a bar in full disguise, huddled in a hoodie and five-fingered gloves, keeping his head down and trying not to be noticed while Casey did the ordering. That was exciting too in its own way, but this experience of walking in openly to present himself as just another customer is something he has dreamed of but never truly expected to experience. He thinks he is starting to see now why Leonardo has scheduled such regular visits to Usagi's world. Maybe Leo, who has always been the most anal about their general policy of never revealing themselves to the outside world, appreciates being just another face in the crowd.

He still draws random looks, of course. The sight of a humanoid turtle is clearly still something of a novelty to the folk of Niigata. But Mike has always craved attention, and finds that these curious gazes do not bother him as much as he thought they would. It is so refreshing not to have to hide his face -- to meet these gazes head on and disarm their uncertainty with his friendly smile. Sometimes his direct acknowledgement sends their eyes back to the table in front of them, and he understands that they feel embarrassed to have been caught staring. But an apologetic smile is still a smile -- and it's a huge improvement over the sort of reception he and his brothers usually receive from the general public.

It is a novel and beautiful thing. Mike wonders if he will ever grow accustomed to it -- and if he does, how hard will it be to go back home and return to a life of forced anonymity, clinging always to the shadows of society?

That is a sobering thought, and thus one he reflexively tries to put out of mind. There is never a good reason to feel bummed about the stuff he has no power to change.

" _Ohmigoshthestew_!" the turtle exclaims all in a rush. A moment ago he had been craning his long neck this way and that in an effort to take in everyone and everything, but all of a sudden he only has eyes for the incoming food. He sits up straighter and eyes the overworked and overburdened server as she hustles closer, her tray heavy with clay jars and tiny cups and steaming bowls that must surely contain the main course being offered tonight.

The shinobi manages to get a good look as well as a good sniff as she hurries past with her tray. "It's _fish_ stew!" he reports in surprise, his snout wrinkling at the unhappy realization. Of course it should have been obvious, this being a port city with a small legion of fishing vessels floating in the harbor just outside... But is it any wonder that spending most of the day up to his elbows in fish guts has had a negative impact on his appetite for this particular dish?

Mike looks across the table at Usagi, meeting the samurai's gaze for another stunned beat. Then he shuts his eyes starts to laugh -- a warm laugh, without reservation. He lifts a hand to press his knuckles against one of his eyes as he agrees, "You were right, Usagi-san... hahaha! We really didn't think this through!"

The ronin had looked over at his companion when the turtle exclaimed happily about the food. He too had glanced at the young waitress as she hurried to serve a group at a nearby table, he thought that the stew looked rather pleasant. That is not to say that he did not fully understand Michelangelo’s immediate distaste for it, seeing that they had been literally elbow deep in fish since rather early this morning.

Regardless of the contents of the stew, Usagi was quite looking forward to having a warm meal in his stomach that was not the partially burned rice and overcooked daikon that he normally prepared.

He returned the shinobi’s laughter, giving him a shrug and happily responded, “Perhaps blacksmithing is not so terrible an option after all, eh Michelangelo-san?”

"Nah, not at all. Let's do it! I will pound the shit out of some metal." Michelangelo gets his giggles under control but his eyes still twinkle merrily. "After all, I'd say the chances of us getting served steel for dinner are pretty damn slim."

He looks up again. "Oh, oh, here she comes! Quick, how do you say vegetarian in Japanese?"

Usagi chuckled lightly at his companion’s sudden change of heart as far as the alternative occupation was concerned. He had to agree that steel was not a likely meal they would be served, at least not in a literal sense. Though the few occasions he had been told to “eat steel” came to mind briefly.

At Mikey’s question the ronin’s brow furrowed and he gave an almost comical shrug. “We do not have a word for it. I would suggest trying, ‘watashi wa niku toh sakana wo taberarimasen’ which just means ‘I do not eat meat or fish’.” **(The word 'bejitarian' which is Japanese was not invented until the 1800’s, so it would not exist in the vocabulary of Usagi’s time period.)**

Michelangelo looks uncertain for a moment. Finally he purses his mouth and shakes his head. "Nah... I don't wanna lie. I do eat those things. Aw man, I would eat some beef stew in a heartbeat. I would have like second and third helpings. Oh well. I am trying to be a more honest person these days, you know? I want good karma."

As the waitress approaches, he inquires politely, "Osusume hin wa nan desu ka?" **(What do you recommend?)** in the hopes that she might mention something OTHER than fish soup. No such luck. He's pretty sure she just recommended the same damn soup. He gives up quickly, telling her he will have what that other table had. This time he remembers not to point, at least.

The ronin’s eyes widened in momentary horror when Michelangelo stated that he would really enjoy beef stew. He knew that on the turtle’s planet ‘beef’ was eaten frequently and with little reservation for most. He made a mental note to have a discussion with the young shinobi about how ‘beef’ was not food here. It was people.

Usagi had nodded briefly to the waitress to let her know that he will also have a bowl of the stew they had prepared that evening. The young girl had smiled sweetly, giving them each a respectful bow before asking in her quiet and mousy voice, “Tea? Sake?”

"Sake o kudasai!" Mike replies with cheer, then realizes that he has taken over the whole ordering process. He looks at Usagi and apologizes, "Er, if that's okay? Do we have enough? Tea is kind of boring."

Usagi smiled kindly at his companion. He personally did not often drink sake, he found that the drink dulled his mind, making him less aware and prepared than he would like to be. He had too often in the days after Mariko married Kenichi turned to sake for comfort, especially on the occasions when Gennosuke paid for it.

However, he did not feel like it was his place to dictate that sort of stuff for Michelangelo who had worked very hard all day for a portion of the money that they had between him, the lad should be able to spend some of it as he sees fit.

“Hai, we have enough, my friend.”

Michelangelo smiles at this news, and at Usagi's agreeable nature in general. His brothers are all more practical and spendthrift than he is, and Mike has grown used to their regular curtailing of his tendency towards excess. "Might help ya stay warm on the ferry ride," he suggests with a one-shouldered shrug. "Or... feel warmer, anyway."

It is weak rationale. Mike knows this. Leo wouldn't have approved of the purchase. He would expect Mikey to remain sharp and on his guard in a chaotic and public situation like a festival. But lately, thinking about how much Leo disapproves of a thing usually just makes Mike want to do that thing all the more.

"But I don't wanna get, like, super wasted or anything," he explains as an afterthought. "I wanna remember every second of the festival. Tell me more about what it's gonna be like!"

The ronin smiled kindly at the young waitress as he hurried off to go fetch their food and drink. He turned to his companion and shrugged uncertainly at the question about the festival. “I have not been to this particular matsuri in many years. The basic celebrations typically stay the same through the years but there is also much that changes with time.”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully and added, “Last time I went to Aikawa I had taken Jotaro when he was young… I recall that as the sun was beginning to set they began the idol parade. Artists create representations of the gods and march them through town, it is good fun. After the parade everyone went to the docks and sent the lanterns out into the tide. One the lanterns filled the water then it was mostly wandering the town to listen to minstrels, watch street performers and the like… I paid for Jotaro to have his paw read. I am still convinced that she was a trickster.”

"I want my paw read," Michelangelo announces. "I don't care if she is a trickster. In fact, that's better because knowing true stuff about the future sounds kinda scary, but fake prophecies of doom sound hella fun."

Michelangelo wiggles spooky fingers at Usagi. "OoooOOooohh... beware the hour of the rabbit! For one of these dawns will surely spell your doooooom...!"

He drops his hands back onto the table and snickers.

Usagi’s eyes widen at the prediction, a shiver running down his spine as the words fell from Michelangelo’s lips. He knew that the words were intended in jest, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him to be wary of them. The long eared ronin forced a smile onto his face, telling himself sternly that he was being far too superstitious.

“Perhaps you will get your chance to have your fortune told tonight, my friend.” he said thoughtfully as the waitress came back to their table once again, this time with a tray laden with bowls, the bottle of sake and two glasses.

"Arigato!" the turtle thanks the waitress, but once she is out of sight the whole of his attention returns to the ronin seated across from him. "So, tell me! Who is _Jotaaaro_?" Mike wants to know, leaning forward on his elbows conspiratorially. He's rather hoping he is finally about to hear the dirt on this mysterious ex-boyfriend.

When the turtle had turned to face him, leaning closer to him the ronin cocked a brow at the turtle and shook his head, “For the love of the gods, _please_ do not say his name like that.” With a chuckle the ronin leaned forward, mirroring Mikey’s position and added, “Jo is my nephew… _Sort of_.”

He straightened himself up, grabbing the spoon the waitress had left for him and continued on, weaving the same false tale about his relationship with his son that he had told to many people in his life, including Jotaro himself, “He is the son of my best friend from childhood, Mariko and my childhood rival, Kenichi. He trained under my sensei and has been my travelling companion many times through the years.”

"Whups! Haha... my bad, dude. I wasn't trying to be gross, just digging for the good stories, right?" Michelangelo takes one of the bowls off the tray and sloshes it around uncertainly, studying the contents with an dubious gaze. "That's a little weird tho, your rival being cool with you travelling around with his little man. It must be a pretty gentle rivalry."

Usagi chuckled, “There was nothing gentle about my rivalry with Kenichi.” The ronin dragged his own bowl of stew nearer to him and stirred the contents as he spoke, “Everything was a competition between he and I. Who could run faster, climb higher, countless spars as children.

Our fencing training was the climax of that rivalry. He and I were supposed to train at the same school but I went against my father's wishes and instead trained with a hermit named Katsuichi. Kenichi and I faced off at a fencing tournament between the various schools and his sensei found it insulting that mine only brought a single student to compete. Kenichi had vowed that he would defeat me or return to our village in shame.”

The long eared ronin took a large bite of the stew, wincing as the liquid burned his throat. After a moment he continued with a shrug, “I won the tournament… flawlessly. Lord Mifune offered me a position as his samurai and gifted me with my soul. Kenichi returned to the village, where he took up my father's title of head man and went on to marry Mariko very shortly after i left with my Lord Mifune.” He gave a soft chuckle and added, “And… He ‘won’ our rivalry. All along it was truly her that we were competing over and Kenichi got her.”

"A girl, huh?" Mike thinks about this. "I wish I could like girls that way. Then there would be twice as many hot people. Sometimes on my world it seems like my chances of finding a dude who could love a ninja turtle are pretty fucking slim. Like... I finally found one after twenty-three years, and I blew it. So I prolly gotta wait another twenty-some years before it happens again."

Wow, this topic got depressing rather quickly. For once Mike doesn't immediately shy from the fact. Instead he lifts the bowl of soup and takes an slurp from it. It's actually pretty good, though he tries not to breath in the smell of it in an effort not to think of all the fish guts.

"You probably sometimes think about what it would be like, huh? If you hadn't won that tournament, I mean. If that was your life instead of his."

The ronin smiled kindly at the shinobi and genuinely supplied, “I am certain that there are those that would gladly love a ninja turtle, my friend.”

He took another bite of soup, mulling over the question his companion had passed to him. Finally he gave a shrug, “I used to. When I was young and the hurt was still fresh. But at this point in my life I can say that I have moved passed most of it. I am content with my lot in life… for the most part.”

"Wish I could say the same," Mike sighs. "Dude, I would give anything to have a rugrat of my own... to find somebody to love, and be able to start a family with them. I just don't see how it's ever gonna be in the cards for me."

The turtle reaches for the jar of sake and fills the pair of cups. "Sorry to be a downer," he apologizes. "To being content with what what fate brings..."

Mike sort of laughs and shakes his head quickly. "No, that's a horrible toast. Quick, think of a better one."

The ronin had a mouthful of stew as Mikey poured the sake and set the small cup in front of him. By the time he had swallowed and was about to decline the drink Michelangelo had already proposed a toast.

The ronin let out a soft sigh, eyeing the tiny cup of spirits. _It would be simply rude to refuse the drink at this point. And anyway, a little sake is not the end of the world._

He picked up the little ceramic cup and brought it up to eye level, “To having survived what fate has brought and making the most of it.”

"Kampai!" Michelangelo will gladly toast to that. "Isn't that what you guys say? That's what dad used to say at every toast anyway..." He hefts his cup and drains the contents.

"Wow," Mike comments, looking quite impressed as he sets the cup back down. "This stuff tastes _good_. It's way better than the stuff Leo brought home for Christmas last year. He didn't trust my eggnog. He says I always make it way too strong..."

Usagi nodded briefly mimicking the shinobi’s toast. He sniffed the wine, the familiar bitter scent of sake filled his nose before he, too, drained his cup. The drink was quite warm going down, but it was smooth and as Mikey said, quite good. But that was to be expected in Niigata which was home to some of the finest sake distilleries.

He raised a brow slightly at Michelangelo’s comment. Even for a celebration such as Christmas it seemed odd that Leonardo would bring any kind of liquor into the lair. But there seemed to be many ways that Leo had changed since they had gone their separate ways. In an attempt to cover the confusion at Leo's behaviour he instead asked, “What is eggnog?”

"Eggnog is one of the most delicious drinks in the world," Mike boasts happily. "Or, if you ask Raph lately, one of the worst drinks in the world for you, calorie wise.. or if you ask Casey, one of the grossest drinks... it's very hit and miss with people! We only have it at Christmas time. But I love it. It's super thick and sweet. I dunno if it's actually made with eggs or not, come to think of it. It comes premade so I never really paid much attention... I mostly just add the booze and drink it."

Michelangelo breaks into a grin as he realizes, "Sorry, this explanation is probably not too helpful. But if you ever come for another Christmas, I will make you try some."

Usagi smiled kindly, but internally the thought ‘ _Not likely_ ’ surfaced very quickly. He highly doubted that he would be openly invited back to New York any time soon. Leo had made it more than clear that he was unwelcome there even for something as important as Splinter’s funeral, let alone a celebration like Christmas.

He remembered clearly the day that he had gotten word of Splinter’s passing. He and Leo had been broken up for quite some time and he had not heard anything from him since. He woke to find a small scroll on his bag, the Hamato crest neatly pressed in blue wax along the seal. He had jumped up, hastily opening the letter with shaky paws, having long awaited word from the shinobi who had long ago stolen his heart. Amaranth eyes quickly scanned the message, only leaving him crestfallen.

_Usagi Miyamoto of the Mifune Clan,_

_I am writing you to inform you of the death of Hamato Splinter. Seeing as he was your friend, I extend my condolences._

_If you so choose, a vigil will be held in his honor. As his friend, you may attend if you must to seek closure._

_-Hamato Leonardo, Master of the Hamato Clan._

It could not have been clearer to him that this was merely an obligation on Leo’s part and that he would be an unwanted guest.

Usagi had gathered together a bag of rice as well as the rest of the coin he had on his person, placing them in traditional black silk bags, tied with ornate white ribbon. He had gone only briefly to the Hamato’s home, leaving his gifts and a letter for the family before leaving without seeing any of them.

_To my dear friends of the Hamato Clan,_

_My heart breaks for you upon hearing of the loss of your master._

_Hamato Splinter was a dear friend and an honorable man. I consider it the greatest of honors to be counted amongst his friends. The universe has suffered a great loss at the passing of such a being as he._

_While I am unable to be among you during this time of grief, I hope that you know that each of you is in my thoughts and prayers._

_Should you need anything, anything at all - I am at your service._

_With deepest regard,_

_Usagi Miyamoto._

It was the last correspondence he had with the clan before recent events and the memory of it filled him with a heavy sadness. Before he had even realized what he was doing the ronin had poured more sake in the glasses before them and agreed, “Perhaps next Christmas, my friend.”

"Yeah, maybe!" Mike agrees with genuine optimism "It's weird to think that I'm gonna miss this year's Christmas celebration. And you guys probably don't have it here."

It occurs to Mike that he is looking at this all wrong. "But that's okay! Because I am probably gonna get to see to a bunch of events and holidays we don't got back home, like the Aikawa Matsuri!"

He lifts the soup bowl and drains it in a few huge gulps. These turtles are capable of inhaling food at alarming rates, though this is perhaps something one would not know if most of his previous association was with the oh-so-well-mannered Leonardo. "Sorry, I didn't want to smell it anymore," he apologizes as he sets down the empty bowl. He wipes his mouth with the back of one hand and grins, reaching for his ceramic cup. "This stuff tastes better than the soup, anyway."

The second glass of sake was just as smooth as the first and already Usagi was able to feel the warmth of the drink in his chest and cheeks as well as a slight airiness in his head. It had been years since he had indulged even a little and this wine was particularly strong.

The turtle quickly emptying the bowl of it’s contents followed by the reasonable explanation brought a chuckle to his lips, one that was perhaps the tiniest bit more hearty than it should have been, given the simplicity of the action. He gave the young shinobi a fond smile and mused as he picked up his spoon to once again start eating the stew, “I do hope that you find the celebrations you will see as a decent substitute for your Christmas regardless of your companion for them being a grumpy old rabbit.”

"Aww, don't be down on yourself like that, Usagi-san!" Mikey encourages as he refills the cups. "I totally dig hanging out with you! It's been rad. And I'm pretty sure you're in way better shape than I am. The Great Fish Duel of... of whatever year this is... proved that, for sure."

He had filled Usagi's cup first, and there is only enough left in the jar to fill his own cup halfway. He takes the partly filled cup and drinks from it before his companion can make any chivalrous claims on it.

"So I was thinking... I know we agreed to ignore Leo’s stupid idea that you should be my bodyguard. And I am so down with that, believe me. But... maybe you could still be the one who guards the money we earn? 'Cause... I kinda suck with, uh... not spending it. Just sayin'." The turtle flashes a vaguely guilty grin.

The ronin set down his spoon only long enough to drain the last glass of sake, silently grateful that there was no more of it, as it was likely that he would have simply continued to drink with the mood that he had let himself spiral into. With how quickly the wine had affected him, that likely would have been a rather poor choice of judgement.

After he took a moment to appreciate the burn that the drink left in his throat the rabbit said with a kind smile, “I do not see that to be a problem, my friend. I can keep your coin with mine. I do not _typically_ spend frivolously so it should be safe enough.”

The ronin picked up his bowl and finished off his own stew, though not as impressively as Mikey had, needing to stop three times to manage the feat. He pushed the bowl away from him and stood from the table, “Come, Mikey-san. We would not want to miss our boat.”

Michelangelo stands up as well, or rather, he bounces up with all his pent up and irrepressible energy.

"I'm ready!" he announces. "Parades and Rapunzel lanterns, I can't wait! Do we need to... oh, we already paid, right? The meal came with the room?" He bounces in place a little, already quite eager to be on to the next entertainment. If only his first six months had been like this. Having someone else with whom to share life's joys seems to make all the difference.

“Hai, I paid this morning.” the ronin confirmed as they made their way towards the door, giving a polite bow to the young server as he passed her.

He stepped out into the brisk autumn air. His fur and clothing was still damp, though the fire had certainly helped to dry him a bit. But the ronin found that in his somewhat intoxicated state he really did not care about the chill in the air. Rather than uncomfortable he found it somewhat pleasant.

As they made their way back down to the docks he too had a slight bounce in his step, having become quite excited for the festival and, for the first time in years, he was not plagued by thoughts of heartbreak and of Leonardo.

Michelangelo follows Usagi's lead in bowing to the server, in a belated and rather obvious way. He is trying to learn how to be courteous on this world. And one thing he is discovering is: when in doubt, bow to everybody.

The streets are less crowded than they were, and all the pedestrians he does encounter are mostly headed in the same direction. Foot traffic gets thicker the closer they get to the docks and by the time they are standing in the line to board he feels like he is being pressed forward in a wave of bodies. This doesn't trouble him -- in fact, it's exhilarating! He is elbow to elbow with dozens of people, all hoping to make the next ferry, none paying any more than a curious glance at the turtle foreigner in samurai garb.

"Ooh, ooh, is that it?" Mikey wants to know, squinting out at the water. He can see a boat heading this way with pretty colored lanterns hung all around the perimeter. He doesn't really need to ask, it's more the opportunity to share his enthusiasm and the excuse to rattle Usagi by the shoulder. In his eagerness he forgets the rudeness of pointing as he cheerfully indicates the festive vessel that is steadily approaching. "That's the ferry, right?"

He knows it must be. It is absolutely perfect.

As they joined the throng of people waiting to board the ferry to Sado Island Usagi was jostled about by several eager townsfolk and children as they rushed past him, a few of which looked back at him expecting the samurai to lash out at the disrespect, but were met with nothing more than a kind smile from the ronin who was having a rather good evening.

When they had come to a stop midway through the queue and Michelangelo excitedly shook him by the shoulder the rabbit looked out Into the bay to view the ship which Mikey was pointing to, a gesture that the contented ronin did not even bother to correct. Even in his geta the older warrior had to lift himself onto his toes to see over the heads of many in the gathering. The ship out on the water was clearly the one they were waiting for. It decorated extravagantly for the festival, lanterns of every color imaginable hung from it along with prayer flags and idols. He could even hear minstrels already playing onboard.

“I _suppose_ it is…” the ronin mumbled before turning to his companion in mock disappointment, gesturing lamely to the boat with his paw, “You would have thought they would have at least put _a little effort_ into decorating.”

"Haha, you're outta your mind, it's PERFECT!" Mikey crows. A lanky dog with upright ears is blocking his vision now, and he shifts and goes onto his tiptoes too in order to keep gazing at a sight that only grows more magical as the boat draws nearer to shore.

The boat is making good time. The more trips it can make, the more coin it can collect. Very few people are headed from Sado to Niigata, so the disembark process is very fast. First comes a pair of police escorting a shackled, apprehended criminal back to the mainland. The miserable man keeps his head down to avoid the looks of scorn he receives. Next comes a mother leading a trio of children who must have been too unruly to remain for the festival. They are weeping and begging to return, but her face is grim with determination. Michelangelo watches these dramas with open-mouthed interest.

But that's it. No other passengers are waiting, and suddenly they are being ushered over the gangplank and onto the wooden craft.

Up close it seems to Mike to be a fine vessel -- not so posh as the austere boat the geisha had boarded, but loads nicer than the fishing boat they spent most of the day loading with barrels of salted fish.

"That would be a slick bodyguard gig, wouldn't it?" Mike comments as he steps off the gangplank and away from the man who collected the fare from Usagi. Though quite genial, he was flanked by a pair of watchful samurai guards, and it is these no-nonsense individuals to whom he refers. He reconsiders as he looks over his shoulder. "But then we wouldn't see much of the actual festival! Forget that. Come on, dude, I wanna see the boat before it's too full with people!"

He grabs Usagi by the hand and pulls him forward. What he really wants to see is all the lanterns.

Up close, the painted paper lanterns are every bit as glorious. Each one is hand-crafted and no two are quite the same. Some have dangling charms or tails of fabric or curled paper, while others are hung with chimes of bamboo or polished discs of shell. They move with the steady wind rolling over the bay and fill the air with a musical sound. Michelangelo isn't sure if the symbols and images on them are significant. He suspects that, like so many interesting things in this land, they are meant to pay homage to the local gods.

By the time they reach the bow of the ferry, it is too crowded to circle back around the opposite side. Instead Mike leans out on the railing and looks out into the hazy expanse of sea and sky. It looks like the restless black waters stretch on forever. If there is an island out there, his keen eyes cannot yet glimpse it. The horizon is flat and unbroken but for a few bobbing lanterns of privately owned ships. The tinkling shells and the warmer notes of bamboo chimes can still be heard, joined by the growing murmur of friendly conversations from fellow passengers, but all in a secondary language and the sound registers only as part of a larger chorus. For a moment, leaning on the rail with Usagi, it seems to Mike that only the two of them exist in all the world. Such a sentiment fills him that Mike throws an arm around Usagi, one of his smooth muscular arms encircling the other’s shoulders in another of his impulsive hugs. It has got to be hard to re-establish those boundaries of comfort when Usagi has previously allowed Mike into his personal space.

Mike gives his companion a one-armed squeeze and says softly, "Thank you." He lets the side of his head rest gently against the ronin's. "For this. For being here with me. Y'know? This is the happiest I been in a really long time."

Usagi was following alongside his companion as they were ushered towards the boat. He had barely secured the pouch of coin back onto his obi when he was grabbed by the paw, the shinobi leading him onto the boat before he was even able to respond the turtle’s comment about the ronin on the docks. He had to practically jog to keep up with Mikey’s long strides, but he did so without complaint, laughing happily as he was dragged around the boat by the excitable youth.

When they had come to the bow of the ship the ronin looked out over the water, taking in the sight of the stars glittering in the sky, beautifully reflected in the water below. The glow of lanterns across the small expanse of sea punctuating the darkness with an array of color that complimented the stars beautifully. He let out a contented sigh, letting himself simply enjoy this moment in time. He could not recall the last time he felt at peace like this.

He was thrown off balance when the shinobi beside him pulled him into that sidelong hug. Luckily he did not fall far, his body now pressed against the turtle’s side. Typically the rabbit’s firm dislike of the invasion of his personal space would have had him quickly extracting himself from the unexpected embrace, but right now, with his head swimming slightly as it was, he found that he did not mind it in the slightest. h actually could not think of a better way to express his gratitude to Michelangelo for having helped him orchestrate this evening of profound contentment. Even when the boundary was pushed further, the ninja’s head resting on the top of his, the ronin did not pull away. Instead he responded by momentarily nuzzling the turtle’s cheek with his forehead.

“I am glad that you are enjoying yourself, Mikey-san. And I am glad to be here with you, my friend.” He glanced upward, flashing the younger male a kind smile and added, “This is the happiest I have felt in a long time as well.”


	10. Miscalculations and Missteps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair of benched Hamato warriors finally resume their training with disastrous results.

It's earlier than Raphael would have preferred to awaken. He's not yet acclimated to his own mandated, night-owl friendly training schedule. He would much rather be dozing in his hammock, but their clan faces many serious troubles right now and all of them converged and chased one another around in circles in his brain until finally he knew that getting back to sleep was hopeless.

He debates whether or not to start coffee. Don will want some, and he’s not due to be up for another couple of hours... assuming he slept at all. God, Raph hopes he got some sleep! Training starts in earnest today. The last thing Raph wants is to start the day off sounding like a nagging parent to his own brother. That aspect of leadership is the very worst, mostly because he knows how much he hates it any time Leo pulls that crap on him.

He decides to make the coffee. Even if it sits on the burner for a while, it won't be for half so long as it sat the other night and Don had no problem with that nasty sludge. Maybe the smell will lure Don out of his room eventually.

He settles in at the breakfast table with a steaming mug, a pencil, and a newspaper. The paper is just a couple days old. He skims the articles, trying to maintain a healthy disinterest in the few crimes mentioned. They still jump right off the page, still call to him. Car break-ins on the rise in Alphabet city. A murder in Harlem, but nobody rich or white enough to make the first page. Nobody's gonna dig too deep to solve that murder... _damn_!

 _Cool it, cowboy_ , he scolds himself bitterly. _You're not the Nightwatcher anymore_.

The ghost of his past mistakes, dead and buried for six long years, still lingers to haunt him -- long enough to make Raph wonder if he will ever be completely free.

With a disgruntled, grumpy sound, he snaps the paper and purposefully flips past all the news and current events. Flips past the annoying opinions pages and fluff articles. Flips past the funnies he would have saved for Mike once upon a time. Finally he settles on the classifieds. Those should be safe enough not to spoil his mood completely.

Mostly he's looking at the bikes and vans for sale. Not that he can possibly justify the acquisition of _yet another_ motorcycle, but they're fun to browse anyway. And as for the vans... Christ, they need another van. Their current one, dubbed The Lunch Box for it's ungainly shape and lingering odor, is an embarrassment to his sensibilities.

After taking a long slug from his coffee mug, he goes down the columns with his hovering pencil, circling the interesting possibilities as if he had all the money in the world.

Donatello sat at the head of his bed with a flashlight caught between his teeth as he quietly thumbed through one of the many novels he had stashed in his room, much as he had the past two mornings. He did not truly care what lay within the pages of the dusty volume, he had stopped really paying attention long ago, this was simply a means to kill time. The young genius tried to be as quiet as possible, waiting for there to be sounds of life from within the lair, knowing that if Raphael caught wind that he was awake his surprisingly astute brother would know full well that he had not slept at all.

Another ten minutes or so went by before he heard the tell tale click of Raph’s door being shut and the graceful padding of steps down the hallway. He began counting in his head, it takes Raph an average of two minutes to walk at a lazy pace from his room to the kitchen, so he counted to three and a half minutes before pulling the thick quilt off of himself, dropping to his knees on the concrete floor and fishing for a small box he kept hidden in the box spring of his bed. Within the box lay several capsules with a carefully measured amount of slightly yellow tinted powder.

He popped one in his mouth before putting the small container back within the hiding spot. The drug would kick in within ten minutes, which gave him enough time to head downstairs, seemingly groggy from sleep, get a cup of coffee and perk up for the day at what he calculated to be a reasonable pace.

Donatello stood and grabbed his deep purple mask from his bedside table, donning the article as he headed to the kitchen, making sure to raise his hand sleepily at Raph who sat at the table with an old newspaper in front of him before he made his way over to the coffee pot. He poured himself an unhealthy amount, quietly musing with a soft chuckle, “I heard the song of my people.”

Heading over to the table, he took the seat across from Raphael and asked, only mildly curious, “Anything good In there?”

Raphael's eyes lift to Don immediately when he makes his entrance, and he’s not sneaky enough even to hide the way he sizes up his brother's condition. One can even see the slight tension in his face and hunched shoulders visibly relax as he falls for the ruse.

He glances down at the classifieds at Donatello's query, then bobs his head as he spins the newspaper around for his brother to see. He taps an ad near the bottom. "Former surveillance van, police auction. Thought you might appreciate all the pre-existing wiring and power to weird places. Ugly as fuck, though. Base vehicle is kinda... old, but low miles. They weren't doing car chases in the thing. Might be armored, too."

His pencil drifts further up the page and one column over before tapping another circled ad. "The other one I like is here. Ford Econoline cargo conversion van with a turtle top." That's not a lame attempt at a pun -- it's what that type of roof mod is actually called. "We could leave it as-is and be able to stand up in the back of this thing, or we could give it a false ceiling and put all the power and wiring you might need up there. Betcha if we showed her some love, this baby could be a real ass kicker..."

 _Uh-oh_... One can be sure Raph is enamored with the vehicle if he's already assigning it feminine pronouns.

Donatello took a large gulp of coffee before reaching out and grabbing the newspaper. His eyes scanned the page quickly, looking at all of the various marks that Raph had put on the page. He tapped the surveillance van with his knuckles and mumbled, “The problem with this one is that it would actually be harder to work with the wiring already in it. I would have to gut it essentially and redo the whole thing. I don't want any government equipment in our van, for obvious reasons.”

He looked up when he gestured to the other van, a slight smile on his face, “Whereas this one is a clean slate. Really, starting fresh just eliminates a step or two for me in this case.”

He passed the paper back to his brother, leaning in his chair as he scooped up his mug once again. “And honestly, the price is not bad. They are asking two grand less than the other. Parts would be far easier to salvage, too.”

 _Ugh_... now he really wants it.

"I could redo the bumper with this mod kit I saw... paint it gunmetal. No need to overhaul the engine, all that looks solid. But fuck those tires. I'm thinking two sixty-five seventy-fives..?" Raph muses aloud over the lip of his coffee. This is the kind of stuff he gets off on... the more typical car jock shit that gets talked about in Motor Trend magazine.

There is a wistful note to his planning, however. He is sure they only dreaming. Especially after that grocery run, Raph assumes they are both broke as a joke.

He drains the remainder of his coffee, sets the mug down, and gets up. Crossing the small kitchen alcove, he moves to stand in front of the blender. A giant tub is pulled out of a nearby cabinet. The tub has a roid-ragey body-builder on the front of it.

"How much do you figure we could net for the Lunch Box?" he wonders over one shoulder as he measures and dumps scoops of chocolate-flavored protein powder into the clear plastic basin. True to pessimistic form, he does not sound hopeful.

Donatello dragged the newspaper back towards him, pulling out his shell cell as Raph went about his business mixing one of those god awful protein shakes that he drank every morning. With nimble fingers he dialed in the number beneath the Ford Econoline, mumbling to Raph as he did, “Honestly, it would be best left up to scrap. Ever since Mike crashed it into that guard rail it is just beyond hope…”

The genius terrapin stood, beginning to pace the kitchen and clearing his throat as the dial tone sounded In his ear, holding a finger up to his brother for some silence.

When the voice sounded on the other end Donatello began to speak, but in a far more nasally voice than normal - and a very heavy yiddish accent.

“Hello!? _Oy vey_ , with dis machine. I can neva figyaa out if it is on. Hello? Yes I’m callin’ about dis ad dat I seen. I was lookin’ in da paper dis mornin’, and _eeehh_ \- here it is, dis van. My _shmutz_ of a son wrecked his car and his mutha’ won't let me get any peace and quiet until I get ‘im a new one. _Feh_! Anyway, I’m thinkin’ dat dis one will work for ‘im.”

Donatello had taken off his glasses and was gesturing dramatically as he spoke as if the person the the other line was directly in front of him. “Uh huh. Yeah? What’are ya kiddin’ me? So longs as the machine can start and move it’ll do. I am not gonna get dat boy anyting fancy until he comes to see his mutha more than once a month. He’s breakin’ her heart and _I’m_ da one dat gets ta listen to her flappin’ her jaws day and night without stop!”

He walked over to the counter and snatched up a pen and a pad of paper that was kept by their landline. “Alright den, sonny, what's your name so I can send ya a letter on the email? Uh huh. Alright. Look for my letter, da name is Donald Fitzgerald. Alrighty, pleasure doin’ business. Mazel Tov.”

When he hung up the call Donatello chuckled and put his glasses back onto his snout and turned to his red banded brother. He wore a wide smile and said with a shrug, “I need a new project.”

Raphael isn't even looking in Don’s direction when he holds up that finger. He had just got out the milk and started to add it to his mixture when Don began his Yiddish playacting. He looks up from the blender and slowly over one shoulder in utter confusion.

Did Donatello just go _insane_ right before his eyes? Or did Raph himself just go insane? Could this be what going insane feels like? He stares until he abruptly realizes he is pouring way too much milk into the protein mixture. He rights the carton somewhat clumsily and sets it on the counter before abandoning the blender altogether and stomping over to Don. He waits until the crazy conversation is over, and he’s really trying to look stern and not grin but it's not working out too well. That voice Don is using is too funny.

When the call has concluded he explodes, "What the hell was that? Was that a prank? Are we _scamming_ these people?" He doesn't sound irate so much as baffled and demanding an immediate explanation.

Don laughed deeply at first but it was followed up by a pensive look as he thought about the best way to explain what it was he was just doing. The genius finished off his cup of coffee and went to pour a second cup as he explained casually, “Donald Fitzgerald is an alias, Raph. I have been using the name since I was about eighteen years old… I may have acquired the name through the _smallest_ bit of identity theft.”

He turned to his brother with a sheepish grin before adding, “But it is not like I have done any damage to his livelihood through this process. His credit score is immaculate at this point, actually. He is still in good health, but he is getting old, living in a retirement community in Florida. He gets a stipend of everything I make using his name, cleverly disguised as part of a payoff from a medical malpractice case he had at about the same time that I started using his identity.”

He crossed over to lean on the counter next to Raph, looking up at him pleadingly, “I hope you are not mad… it has been…. Lucrative…. _Extremely lucrative_.”

Raphael stares and blinks at Donatello, trying to comprehend what he has just been told. He knows one thing is certain: Leonardo is going to _hate_ this! He is going to hate everything about it. But on the other hand, Leonardo did not put him in charge with the understanding that he would feel the same way that Leo does about everything! Leo doesn't have to know everything, does he? Why, no he does not!

So the first thing out of his mouth is, "How... How lucrative? No, shit! That's not the right question. The right question is... how? Because identity theft alone is not _extremely lucrative_. So how did you earn it, Donnie?" He pauses and pinches his brow lightly before adding, unable to help himself, "And also... HOW lucrative?"

Donatello’s smirk cannot decide whether it is sheepish or smug. He knows that this not something he should be particularly proud of, but the fact that he has gotten away with it as long as he has is something he is quite satisfied with. But he did not feel the need to hide _this_ from Raphael, not when it was this brother whom he had divulged the truth of his experience with the time scepter to.

Hopefully Raphael would approve of his plans for the stores of money.

Also, the drugs he had taken were beginning to kick in quite nicely, giving him an extra dash of enthusiasm as he laid out his harebrained scheme to his confidante. “It started as a simple matter of wanting to learn how the stock market works. There were a few mistakes to begin with, but I have more than compensated for them at this point. I have put the money that I have earned from the stocks in several bank accounts that cannot be traced. Some out of the country. Putting the funds in accounts that have been allowed to accumulate interest over the years while being frequently added to.”

He flashed his brother a pleased grin before adding, “Close to eighty-thousand dollars in savings. Seventy six thousand eight hundred thirty American dollars and sixty four cents, last I checked. My plan has been to use these funds to stock us to the teeth with weaponry and survival equipment…. Should things start to go downhill.”

That... well, it still boggles the mind. But that explanation is also 'not illegal' enough to suit Raph. By the end of it he is nodding along, though he seems to catch himself doing it and abruptly puts on a grumpier, less approving scowl. But it's probably obvious anyway -- he is being won over.

"Just... gimme a second ta'..." He doesn't even complete the thought, just wanders back over to the blender in a sort of daze.

Raphael looks at the soupy mess at the bottom of the blender. Way too much milk. There’s nothing to do but dump it out... or add more powder. Wasting food has been a cardinal sin ever since the early days of scavenging and the winters of near starvation, so he goes with the latter, scooping in more protein and then starting the old blender. It makes a merry ruckus, oblivious to the turmoil in his head.

"Alright," he grumbles once the blender has done it's thing. He turns and puts his shell against the counter to look sternly at Don. "Let's say I go along with your..." he waves a vague hand. "Identity theft, Wolf of Wallstreet... thing ya got goin' here. And we'll even say I don't tell Leo. Because... yeah, obviously that's not going to fly. So. We both lie to Leo." He really doesn't mince words, does he? "It's a pretty big risk I am taking on for you, going along with something I know -- something we _both_ oughta know -- he's gonna hate. So I think it stands to reason you are gonna have to do something for me." He turns around and selects two large plastic tumblers from the cabinet. Both are filled with chalky brown sludge and one is triumphantly set before Donatello.

It's Don's own fault he made too much, anyway. "Bon appetite," he grins wolfishly.

At first Donatello had breathed a sigh of relief at the seemingly easy way that Raph had accepted his extra curricular activities. He should have known that he would not be let completely off the hook.

It seemed such a simple thing, drinking the cup of chocolate flavored sludge that Raph set in front of him, but it was more than a lack of appetite and aversion to the drink that gave him pause. It was all of the ways that he felt that his brother was trying to fix him. Often subtle and seemingly innocent gestures and the look of constant concern that accompanied them which made them so hard to stand. It was as simple as the fact that he was falling apart and Raph had taken It upon himself to take care of him.

He knew he should appreciate it, all of the things that the red masked shinobi did for his well being… but he often found himself experiencing bitterness. Not only did he feel crazy, but he was to be treated like a child as well?

He narrowed his russet eyes, glowering at the drink, balling his hands into fists before angrily grabbing the drink and drinking it as quickly as he could while having to take several breaks to gag on the disgusting substance. When he had finished he let the cup drop definitively into the sink with a loud clatter. He leaned once more against the counter, his enthusiasm officially dwindled.

Raphael feels it too. As he set down the drink, his eyes had been good-natured and bright with mirth, but the happy sparkle in them fades as he sees the pale-knuckled fists clenching, the angry swipe of the cup, or the way his brother is suddenly dripping with defensive spiteful smell that wasn't there before. And he gets it. That's the worst part. It is so very easy to put himself in Donatello's perspective.

Raph happens to know first hand how much it sucks to be palling around with your bro one moment and then suddenly having that brother turn into your leader right before your eyes and start throwing his weight around, telling you how it's going to be. He even sort of vowed to himself that he would never be like that, if he ever got the chance. There was a time and place for being the leader, he had told himself. Like, on official missions, somebody they love is in trouble, the city needs saving, even leading a training session -- yeah, no question. You da man! But when they're just _goofing off_ together...

Technically he could tie this in as a training issue... but the official start time of 3:00 pm is still hours away, and they were definitely just being bros a second ago. So while he doesn't think this one _breaks_ the vow, it walks the line a little closer than Raph is completely comfortable with... But Don is nearly done chugging the shake and already pissed. It's too late to back off about it. All he figures he can do at this point is try not to be a dick any more than he absolutely has to.

"There, y'see?" he says, trying to put on a playful air like nothing much has changed -- like a great big concrete wall didn't just slam down between the two of them. "You're a champ. Breakfast down in thirty-seconds or less! Because the goal right now is to bulk you up, yeah? You're not workin' out cause you to be able to squeeze into some extra-small skinny jeans. But what the fuck do you think happens when you go into the dojo on zero fucking calories, man?"

He tries to command Don's gaze, stepping closer and looking at him intently as he insists, "So -- please feed yourself before you step in my dojo. Or -- I will have to force the issue. _I'm sorry,_ but -- but there's _logic_ in what I'm tellin' you! I know some part of you hears it."

Donatello’s eyes were trained on his own toes, refusing to look up at his brother who had already stepped into his _jonin shoes_ this morning. He fucking hated this. The way that their dynamic was forced to shift. He could deal with the helpful nudges towards health when they were just that, but now they carried the weight of orders. Orders which he could not refuse.

He stood in silence for several long moments, the stench of his angered hormones drowning out even the pungent scent of the coffee in his hands. He felt as if he were only an instant away from lashing out at the turtle before him and knew that he needed to get away from this situation before he lost the semblance of composure he maintained.

He let his gaze flash upwards, his hurt and angered eyes locking on to the pale green of his brother’s. He quietly answered, “Hai, _sensei_.” Donatello once again looked away from Raph and moved to fold his arms across his chest, a physical sign of the emotional barrier that was quickly being constructed between them, “May I be excused? I need a smoke and have to send that email about the van.”

" _Don't call me that_. That's a low blow and you know it," Raph growls after a stunned beat. He is stricken and actually fairly offended by the comment, which means it takes effort to smooth the snarl out of his voice. "I never pretended to be that. I'm just holding down the fort, man. Trying to do the best I can with the orders I was given. Not that I wanna lay all'a this at Leo's feet. If we're gonna be training together, of course I wanna do it right! Of course I want it to be successful. But it won't be, if you don't do me this small favor of fueling the tank before we take a drive."

God, Don is begging to go and here he is, still ranting about it! He looks away, pensive and troubled by his ongoing horrendous lack of tact. "I need one too," he admits with a sighs as he picks up his protein shake. By this point he actually has zero appetite for it -- but then, how big of an asshole would he be to leave it untouched on the counter after all of that? "So can I tag along with you? I promise not to talk about this shit anymore. We can talk the van... these weapons you said you wanna make... _literally anything else_ , I swear to God! I can even shut the hell up the whole time you're working on that email. Won't even read over your shoulder." Actually, that's par for the course for Raph; it is Leo and Mike who can't seem to help themselves.

Donatello does not give his brother the dignity of an answer as the red clad shinobi demands that he not be referred to by the honorific title that had been thrust upon him. A part of Donnie is actually quite pleased that his brother took the offense to the comment that he did, knowing that it at least made the impact that it was intended to. Instead of giving a reaction the olive skinned ninja remained staring at a tile on the floor just in front of his foot, not really looking at the object, but rather just looking away from the other terrapin in the process.

When Raph asked if he could come along while Donatello went to smoke the genius gave a soft snort. Obviously asking to leave was not an indication enough that he did not want to be around Raphael any longer. He had, in his mind, been utterly betrayed by his brother. He had opened up to him, told him one of his largest secrets, only to be blackmailed by him.

_Do as he says or he will play the tattle tale and go running off to Mama Leo and tell on me for being a bad boy. Great. Glad I opened up to you, Raphie. Good fuckin’ chat._

Instead of voicing the angry thoughts that were in his mind he merely pushed himself off of the counter and began making his way to the exit of the room, softly calling over his shoulder as he did, “ _Fine_. You can come.”

"Thanks," Raphael says softly. He is fully aware that he is still being frozen out, but doesn't have any clue how to dig himself out at this point. There doesn't seem to be any help for it just yet.

One thing he knows, though: if he were as pissed off at a brother as Don seems to be with him right now, he would probably have needed to stalk off. He wouldn't even be so polite as to ask anybody's permission first. It abruptly occurs to him that Don's temper is not so unlike his own lately. And if that is so, maybe he is doing his brother a disservice by denying him the chance to cool off in private. Maybe he should have trekked out into the tunnels for a smoke and left Don in peace. Too bad this possibility didn't occur to him until well after Don grudgingly gave his permission.

They continue down the hall together in what feels to him like very heavy silence. The pessimistic turtle can't shake the feeling that if he talks right now he will just make things worse, no matter what topic they pick. He busies himself with draining half the protein shake, and tells himself that at least this way Don can have the privacy of retreating into his thoughts.

Once in Don's lab, Raph discards the protein shake on the nearest available surface in favor of fishing out a cigarette and lighting up. He's using a matchbook. It's what he always preferred when he was stupid kid, experimenting and trying too hard to be a rebel.. Back then he liked the way they flared up violently, liked the scratch of dusty chemicals, and especially liked that they sat flush and undetectable in the inner pocket of his leather belt.

Right now, he doesn't give a shit about any of that. It's a matter of self-sufficiency more than anything. It was embarrassing how much trouble the lighter was giving him, whereas it's relatively simple to pinch the matchbook with the fingers of his bandaged hand while he drags the match with his left.

It's especially easy in the still air, seeing as the vents haven't been turned on yet. Whups. He takes a drag as he moves over to the switch he saw Don use the other day, turning it on before Don has time to prompt him or take care of it himself. The spent match is tossed in a waste bin.

That accomplished, he glances over at Don and wonders, "Can I use your whiteboard while yer workin' on that email? Do you still need --" he waves a hand to indicate some high-level nerd shit which is currently scrawled on the board. "-whatever this is?" It could be a chemical formula or computer code or space coordinates for all Raph knows. But there is plenty of free space to the right and below it, so he adds, "I don't mind working around it."

Donatello’s thoughts churned as they walked down the hallway to, what was supposed to be, his fortress of solitude. There were not many tangible thoughts, more an amalgamation of heightened emotions that were so wrapped up in one another that It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. All he knew is that he was pissed and extremely hurt.

When they entered the cold and sterile laboratory Donatello headed straight for his computer desk, pulling open the side drawer and grabbing his smokes. Within just a few moments he had lit one and sunk into the task of pulling up his alias email account. He had written about two paragraphs detailing transfer of funds, title and a drop off for the vehicle for his “son” in Manhattan when Raph had spoken to him.

He lifted his gaze to the whiteboard which was dominated by a series of complex mathematical equations and chemical descriptions. None of It was very important, mostly just exercises used to try to pull himself out of panic attacks over the last week. He had the knee jerk reaction however to simply snap at his brother that he could not touch his things, much as he would have had it been Michelangelo whom had asked.

However Donatello just let out a sigh and grabbed the little eraser from his box of office supplies next to his oversized computer monitor and tossed it to Raph, not giving him a verbal answer before returning to his task, once again filling the silence between them with the frantic clicking of computer keys.

Raphael ducks his head once in thanks as Don passes him on his way back to the computer, though his brother is still refusing to look at him and probably misses it.

He huffs and turns to the whiteboard. At least with this maybe he can work towards something useful. He takes the pen and uncaps it, glancing at the empty board and feeling a stab of intimidation. Normally he would throw his thoughts onto a scrap of paper, and something about the clean white expanse seems to be demanding more from him, organized columns of data and flow charts, but his brain just doesn't think that way. What he winds up working on is more of a mind map.

The first thing he tries to write is the word ' **DRONES** '. This proves tricky to do left-handed, and he erases his first attempt with an annoyed swipe from his useless hand, getting a smudge of black on the bandage rather than bothering with the eraser. He writes it out again, slower this time. Still looks like shit, but he leaves it. _Maybe it's good practice_ , he thinks as he starts writing more beside the word in smaller text. _Maybe I can train myself, and by the time this heals I can be as ambidextrous as Mikey. Leo probably already trained himself like this without the motivation of his wrist bein' fucked. Bet he writes just fine left-handed..._

The cigarette has just been parked between his lips all this time, but now he pinches the marker between his thumb and upper palm, freeing up his fingers to take a proper drag and look over what he has just written:

**DRONES - A WAY TO TAKE ACTION AGAINST KARAI WHILE BENCHED?**

He draws a line off to the side and starts working on a list. Even with generous use of abbreviations it takes time.

**COULD A DRONE...**   
**\----------------**   
**Scope Foot HQ layout?**   
**Spy? Record A/V?**   
**Access computer?**   
**Deploy tracker?**   
**Inject poison?**   
**Release AB toxin?**   
**Carry a bomb?**

Raph was trying to think if there was anything else he wanted to add when suddenly he feels ash drop onto his foot. He swears under his breath, not because he was burned but because Don is super anal about keeping this room sterile and clean. He tromps over to the container of disinfecting wipes Don used the last time this happened. He also snags one of those petri dishes -- not the one Don is currently using, but an empty one -- and takes it back over to the whiteboard. The dish is set on the same bottom tray that holds the markers, and the cigarette is parked there while he sees to cleaning up his tiny mess.

That handled, a new line is drawn away from the main topic and he gets back to work. He alternates between smoking and working on his lists, the marker squeaking steadily. The speed at which he writes remains painstakingly slow. He uses the dying cherry of the first cigarette to light a second, and is almost finished with that one by the time he has written the following:

**CONSIDERATIONS**   
**\--------------**   
**Kamikaze vs reuse?**   
**Used to track back to us??**   
**Small/stealthy vs. Gadgets/firepwr**   
**Max carry wt?**

**SECURITY**   
**\----------**   
**Launch & retrieval AWAY from lair**   
**Not always from same spot**   
**Anti-tamper - poison? explode?**

Donatello continued writing his email, fingers flying across the keyboard at a rapid pace, the clicking of the keys now mingled in the space between he and his brother with the frequent speak of dry erase markers on his whiteboard. He refused to look up at the other turtle when Raph came over for the container of wipes and a petri dish, simply glowering at the computer screen instead.

When he finished his composition Raph was still writing in his untidy left handed scrawl. While his anger at his brother demanded that he continue to ignore his brother his insatiable curiosity prompted him to slide his chair over enough to catch sight of what it was Raph was working on.

Donatello smoked another full cigarette before Raph had finished writing on the board. When the entirety of Raph’s message was finally out of his head and onto the board Don found himself pondering the possibilities of using drones to do do the dirty work of infiltrating the Foot. Immediately little robots scuttling like spiders, chambers of poisons and flammable chemicals housed within their bellies came to mind. He decided that it was worth the time to try out the design to see if it was feasible.

The genius let out a small sigh and spoke to the back of Raph’s head for an instant as he lit up a third smoke, “I will look into it.”

Raph was not thinking he was done necessarily when he backed away from the whiteboard. He was just taking a second to enjoy his smoke and read over what was already written, trying to determine if he's left out anything that belongs in the categories already up there before moving on to the next one.

He is so absorbed in thought and Donatello's gait is so silent that he doesn't realize he has drawn his brother's attention right away. The red-masked terrapin had been just about to reach for the marker when the silence suddenly occurs to him. The clack of angry keystrokes had become a metronome, driving him on to complete this stroke and that, a counter-rhythm to the equally chaotic flow of his thoughts. When he returns to the intention of writing and it isn't there, that's when Raphael's shoulders tense with the realization.

He has no idea how long Don has been done with his email -- no idea how long he has been watching. Now he can feel the weight of his brother’s attention, feels it so keenly that it seems a wonder he didn't notice it right away.

Whether those analyzing, calculating eyes are drilling into him or scrutinizing his work is tough to say -- but all at once, the latter is more frightening. Raph has accepted for ages that Don is smarter than him. Way smarter. When it comes to brains, he's in a whole different weight class! How childish and dumb must his ideas seem to a guy like this...?

When Don does speak, he startles visibly -- like maybe he expected the limbo of ringing silence and self-doubt to stretch on for several more punishing eternities, at least -- and turns to look at Don uncertainly. "It's something I kicked around a few weeks ago but scrapped 'cause I never thought we'd have the cash..."

He wants to add something more, something like 'please let me help', or 'there's more I want to add', or 'I know you could answer a bunch of the questions I have about all this stuff'. But all of it seems pointless suddenly. Don is in no mood to work with him right now...and even if he was, what could he possibly contribute that Donnie wouldn't figure out on his own? He doesn't know how to build robots. Compared to his genius brother, Raphael doesn't know shit about engineering.

He glances down at the remaining stump of his second cigarette, which has nearly burned down to the orange-speckled filter. The turtle debates lighting another for half a second before stepping forward with a sigh and grounding it out in the petri dish. He'd only be smoking it for the excuse it gives him remain here, but hanging around against Donatello's wishes seems increasingly pointless.

"Look, I'll get out of your hair," he offers as he tips the contents of the petri dish into the trash. He sets the tray on the counter beside the lab's little sink and adds, "Thanks for..." _Putting up with me_ , he thinks, but he's not trying to be passive-aggressive and keeps his gloom to himself. Instead he just waves a hand to indicate the whiteboard, the whirring fans behind industrial-strength ventilation shafts... however Don chooses to interpret the vague gesture. It doesn't matter. He ducks his head and turns to go.

It does not escape the genius shinobi’s attention that Raphael had become physically tense at his words, nor did he fail to notice that Raph’s typical confidence and presence had been diminished. It would seem that now that they did not have their separate projects to stand as a buffer between them the tension had returned tenfold. Truthfully, Donnie was still furious with his brother, but the idea of getting to work on these drones which the red clad turtle had begun to dream up did have him intrigued.

But he was not ready to no longer be upset with Raphael, simply following him to the door as he left and slamming the heavy metal shut behind him with far more force than what was necessary. With a flick of his wrist he had locked the door before breathing a heavy sigh of relief - finally getting a moment to be alone with his thoughts.

A large green hand ran along the top of his head as the sound of a sigh echoed into the sterile silence of the dim light of the laboratory, the fingers catching onto the ends of the mask he wore, twirling the fabric around the digit as he pondered. After a moment he crossed to the other end of the room, fetching a large sketch pad which was full of blue graph paper, from on top of one of the many shelves that lined the far wall. He flipped about halfway through the book as he sat down on his chair, the craggy leather surface crunching under his weight. When he had found a blank page he had begun to draw out sketches for several possible drone ideas which had sprung into his mind.

It was hours before the genius shinobi abandoned his efforts and stepped out of the solitude of his laboratory. There were five minutes until the time that had been scheduled for daily trainings for he knew he had to hurry. However, before he was able to make his way to the dojo Donatello took a very brief detour, taping a sheet of white paper, riddled with his own handwriting onto the other’s door. He let out a soft sigh, looking at the paper from which his own tedious handwriting shone up at him.

After running a finger along the tape to make sure that the tape stuck to the door properly, laying flat without the slightest hint of bubbling or fraying, Donatello turned on his heel, launching off of the railing of the upper floor of the boy’s subterranean home. When the turtle hit the floor it was with bent knees and a forward roll to absorb the impact of the fall and without missing a heartbeat he shot forward, quickly crossing to the open doors of their clan dojo.

 

Raphael is two steps out the door when he realizes that he's forgotten something. The other half of the protein shake... the one which he chugged on the way, set down, and proceeded to forget about entirely in favor of plotting wobbly-lettered vengeance on a dry-erase board. He feels sort of honor-bound to drink the rest of it, especially after the grief he gave Don about drinking all of his. He whirls with his mouth already open to speak, but he pulls up short in surprise when Don is trailing closer behind than he expected. Whatever he might have said gets lodged in his throat, and that is the moment when the door is slammed violently in his face.

"Damn..." he mutters, blinking slowly at the heavy metal door.

"Hey, Don!" he calls out a moment later. "I just need my..." The rest dies in his throat as he remembers how sound-proof Don's lab is lately. His left hand reaches for the knob, just intending to pop back in for a second and retrieve his cup of artificially sweetened lukewarm sludge. But then he hears that telltale scrape of metal as the lock clicked into place.

The extended hand jerks back into place like it was bitten and becomes a knotted fist at his side. But he's not mad at Donatello, it's all turned inward. The jagged angles of his frustration rise up all at once on tide of unspent energy. He starts down the hall, feeling antsy now. His immobilized fingers twitch and his knuckles beneath the bandage ache for release. When he finally does give into the dark desire, it is the left fist he drives into the nearest concrete wall. Not repeatedly. He's not trying to crack the concrete blocks or stain them red and brown with blood these days. Just once, he gives into it, and the subtle rush of relief and guilt is both humbling and immediate.

Raphael lets out a loud huff of air and his whole body seems to slump. He flips around, sets his shell against the concrete bricks for a moment to shake and squeeze his left hand in front of his upper chest plates, muttering apologies under his breath, "I know... I know, dad. I'm sorry." Turning his hand to assess his pleasantly stinging knuckles, he sees little visible damage. Didn't break the skin.

From there, he heads straight to their father's room. Long has this been the most serene and beautiful room in the lair, and the thought of re-appropriating it for storage space or some kind of guest room had seemed almost universally abhorrent to them. Thus it has become a kind of shrine to their father's honor, preserved exactly the way he left it. Raph lights only a few of the many artfully melted candles dripping in wax waterfalls down various surfaces throughout the room. The low, flickering light helps to create the illusion of a very late evening, which is an entirely more appropriate hour than noon for this sort of thing. He stays in there for a long while, on his knees in the flickering dark, working his way through a string of confessions and asking the spirit of Hamato Yoshi for guidance.

By the time Don emerges from his room with only minutes left to spare, Raphael pulled himself together entirely. When Don first enters he can be seen camped out on the steps that line the far wall of the dojo, near the sword racks. He is leafing through the latest issue of Black Belt Magazine, but glances up at Don right away and takes a conspicuously noisy drink from the dregs of the second protein shake. His strange sense of honor not only demanded that he make another one, but he also felt compelled to drink it very slowly in order to present Don with proof (or possibly just due credit) for having drunk it.

"You ready to get started with some cardio? Hey, I'll give ya a bunch of options," he offers generously. "You could jump rope, which would not only be decent cardio but amusing from my perspective. If you are feeling masochistic you can try to keep with a little warm up I like to call Three Minutes in Jiu Jitsu Hell. We could run the perimeter alarm check route however many times you feel up to it... so long as it's at least one extra lap besides the one yer gonna' spoil cause you gotta stop at each one to run some kinda diagnostic checks. And finally..." His tone becomes a bit droll as he jerks his chin to indicate the dojo's upper mezzanine where the larger workout equipment lives. "Twenty minutes on the elliptical. If you can still give me intervals, like 60 seconds of really pushing it, every five minutes or so, I won't even care if you're reading a damn book."

This sounds to him like by far the most boring option. But he just has this suspicion it is the one that will appeal to Don the most.

Donatello crossed over the threshold of the dojo, wiping his feet off onto the worn bamboo mat beneath his feet before stepping onto the cool, polished wooden floor that covered the vast expanse of the room he had trained in for the majority of his life. The familiarity of it was comforting, the lingering smell of their father’s favorite jasmine incense which the shinobi had always made sure to keep stocked, the feel of the smooth wood beneath his feet and the sight of the weapons that covered the far wall - none of these things had changed in many years.

The only big difference is the person who is instructing him.

The purple clad shinobi had walked to the far end of the room beside his brother, leaning his oak staff against the wall before sitting down on the floor, listening to the options presented to him as he began his stretches. He had always been incredibly flexible in spite of his cumbersome carapace, so it was from a position with his head resting on his thick kneepads, his large hands gripping his feet, that he answered his brother.

“I am tempted to take the easy way out on this one, in all honesty. Just throw on my headphones and use the elliptical, ya know? But - one of my cameras in the Eastern section of the sewers does have an object obscuring it. It seems the most practical option to run the tunnels and check them out. I would need to go out anyway some time soon… and the temptation to get out of the lair is also there.”

He was being honest with this confession. In the days since Leonardo and Michelangelo’s departure he had found the confines of the lair even more stifling than usual. The way they had parted - harsh words and anger - worried him profoundly for the path their family was on. He had not slept in the past few days for more than an hour or so at a time, his nightmares were vivid and horrific whenever he did manage to close his eyes. Overall, not the best weekend he had ever had.

He lifted himself into a standing position once more, stretching his arms over his head - more so for the pleasant sensation than to actually stretch, as he retrieved his bo. “Shall we, then?”

As soon as Don announced his decision, Raphael abandoned his magazine and got up as well to join his brother -- just some basic stretching better suited to going for an underground run. The formal Junan Undo will come later on -- a series of stretches specifically tailored to warming up the body for ninjustu practice, traditionally performed after calisthenics or other forms of cardio.

He only flashes a grin of keen understanding as Don confesses a desire to get out of the lair. Raph himself often feels that way... a whole lot more frequently than his brothers, he is pretty sure. It is nice to hear someone other than him expressing such a sentiment for once.

"Yeah, let's do this," he enthuses when their initial stretching is done and Don is ready to leave "Grab your shit if you think you'll need the go-bag for any tinkering on the perimeter while we're doin' that first lap."

Raphael is more than glad to be easy-going about this first training session. He is actually more grateful than he can say for Donatello's cooperation and willingness to keep things professional in the dojo, in spite of their recent clash.

The genius nodded briefly, turning on his heel, grabbing his bo and exiting the dojo at a brisk pace and ducking into his lab once again. It only took him a few minutes to don his field gear, as he did not fully suit up, only grabbing what Raph had referred to as his ‘go-pack’ which was a leather messenger bag with a travel tool kit, a few spare shuriken and darts as well as a thin tablet laptop within it. For years this bag had served him for repairs of their security system and he was rarely seen outside the confines of the lair without It.

Once he had grabbed his nearly trademark goggles off of his desk, Donatello jogged out of the lair to once again meet up with his brother. He made it to the front door first and took the opportunity to open the heavy metal door and begin arming their intensive security system as Raphael quickly crossed the threshold toward him.

Raphael waits until the house is locked up tight, then sets their pace at an easy jog. There’s not much point to breaking a sweat until the diagnostic lap is complete.

For the first few Raphael is content to stand idly by, keeping his shell cell in flashlight mode and watching the dark tunnels for signs of life. There are none.

The waiting quickly grows tedious.

There is literally nothing to do but watch Don meticulously wiping a camera lense with a clean grey square of microfiber cloth. Then he plugs his tablet into the thingie, and pokes at both of them for a bit until he's satisfied. There doesn't seem to be any tools involved at all. _It'd be easier and quicker for Donnie to keep the cleaning cloth out, since he'll be using it again in three minutes or less, but - nope! Always folds it back into the same perfect square._ Like so many of his brother’s quirks, Raph finds the behavior simultaneously aggravating and endearing. _And you can tell he ain't even thinkin' about folding it up all neat and perfect, either. His brain is a million miles away..._

At the sixth stop, Raph has to slink forward and confiscate the cigarette Don tries to light once he's crouched in front of the motion detector. He grabs Don's bandana and pulls his head back to deftly snatch it from his brother's mouth with the pinched finger tips of his bandaged hand. His good wrist keeps the purple material pulled taut and leans down to level a calm but very 'alpha wolf' gaze at his brother. Even his scent is thick with dominance as he states, "No. Not during training."

Apparently that is all the punishment he has to mete out over the matter. Raphael releases Don's bandana tails and pulls himself fully upright once again. "I'll give it back to ya when we're done," he promises as he tucks the stolen smoke back into his secret belt pocket. "Hell, I'll probably wanna join you."

Actually, he knows he will. Raph is already having a harder time moderating how much he smokes, especially now that there is no one left to hide it from.

Now he is standing right beside Don, and able to look right down at the screen of the tablet. A notification pop-up appears to report that the diagnostic tests have completed. The red-masked turtle is surprised that he can mostly comprehend what he reads there. Up at the top, he can see that the battery is at 62%. A green field across the top announces ' **CONNECTED TO HOST** ' and then a bunch of numbers and ports and gibberish, but he gets that it's probably just some internet address for Don's security computer at the lair. Below that are the results of the different tests. Pass, pass, pass... nothing but 'pass' reported for the power supply, the wiring, and components check. A timestamp for the last disconnection from the host. A version date of the current firmware. A timestamp for the last detection. At the bottom, some buttons read ' **Display Last Detection** ', ' **Take New Snapshot** ', ' **Adjust Camera Angle** ', and ' **Calibrate Sensors** '. He watches Don press the first button, and sure enough the screen is filled with an image of the two of them walking into the alarmed and monitored choke point.

 _Am I smart enough to learn this stuff?_ Raphael finds himself wondering. _Is calibrating the sensors really as simple as one button press, or does it launch another thing that is way more involved? And what about downloading firmware? How complicated is that?_

All at once it dawns on Raph how strange it is, that he should take an interest in this stuff at all. Bored or not, he wouldn't be thinking about the possibility of taking over this kind of maintenance if he wasn't worried about Donatello not being around anymore. It's an upsetting thought, but he doesn’t let it deter him.

They jog again, and at the next choke point into their home turf Raphael positions himself close enough to once again look over Don's shoulder. He's slightly uncomfortable all the while, not wanting to seem nosy or meddlesome, and stands back a pace or two in an effort not to hover which is probably perfectly obvious.

He peeks over at Don, looking for a clue to his brother's current temperament. Would he even be open to sharing what he knows about security system maintenance? Or would he just want Raph not to touch his stuff? Deciding to test the waters, the muscular turtle takes a step forward. Still leaving the flashlight on for an additional light source, he clips the shell cell to his belt so he can use his uninjured hand to point at the screen. "How come this one here didn't pass? That don't even make sense. How can it be green and connected to the host up here if the wiring is bad?"

Donatello had no issues keeping up with the light pace which Raph had set for them on this initial runthrough of the sewers, especially since they were stopping every few minutes to check on the various cameras that he had put into place as an added security measure for his family. This was a run that he made on his own typically every few weeks, more frequently whenever he was in an upswing and could bring himself to leave the sanctity of the lair.

The programs he ran to calibrate the cameras and to check the connections on them had become almost second nature to him. The small quirky behaviour that his brother had spotted was not something that he even registered, so ingrained was it in these habits. As was the lighting of the cigarette which was interrupted by his brother tugging the tails of his mask and plucking the smoke out of his beak before he had even fished out his lighter from the messenger bag slung across his chest.

His initial reaction was a flash of anger, crimson eyes narrowing slightly at his brother. But as Raphael spoke and released his mask Donatello took a steadying breath and let the anger pass.

_He was well within his rights to do that. After all, this is not a pleasure stroll through the sewer, this time was dedicated to training - which is something I agreed to. There is no way that any sensei I have ever studied under would ever allow someone to smoke during training and Raph is just trying to do right by the position that was thrown into his lap._

The thoughts were comforting and allowed him to push passed the knee-jerk reaction and simply blow off the slight, though he made a mental note to ask Raph at some point to just ask him to put away the smoke rather than tug on his mask like that. He was sure that they could even avoid that initial reaction of anger if he at least had some warning about that kind of physical contact in the future.

As he wrapped up his various tests of the last camera in their system he could feel Raph suddenly paying extra attention to his actions. It was… weird… None of his brothers ever gave a shit about what he was doing when it came to tech unless it involved a car or a television. Raphael’s voiced echoed slightly in what had been near silence for many minutes and Donatello turned his head very slightly to be able to talk to his brother.

He raised an inquisitive brow but decided to indulge the question, curious about Raph’s motivation, shifting the screen so that they both could see it Don cleared his throat and supplied, “The camera is functioning and online. The power source is technically fine. That is why it is given the green. The red flag that you see here is not saying that there is anything wrong with the wiring at the moment. It is just a warning to let me know that the wiring for this particular camera has become outdated, it is not sending quite the same amount of power as it used to. I have set up the system to bring any kind of fluctuations in power to my attention such as this diagnostic run shows us, so that I know where the biggest needs are when I run my upgrades, which I will be doing in about a month if there is not an emergency that I need to fix sooner than that.”

Right at the start of all those technical explanations, Raphael looks a bit overwhelmed. He glances down at himself once with the panicked thought that maybe he should take notes? But his insecurity quickly settles down as he really starts to absorb the words, and -- he can follow them. This is not technobabble. So far this is all way less complicated than installing a car's electrical system.

Raphael doesn't interrupt. He glances at his brother occasionally, but mostly he is looking at Don's tablet and the security device itself, wearing a vague and thoughtful scowl.

In his typical, single-minded and minimalist fashion, he eventually translates, "So it's like a check engine light. For security alarms."

Don watched his brother carefully as he spoke and he could almost hear the gears in Raph’s head working to translate what he was saying. The red-clad shinobi was not looking at him, but rather studying the screen of his tablet. It was not the same kind of avoidance which he normally received from his clan when he started talking tech - the glassy eyed stares as they started tuning him out, nodding occasionally to placate him - rather… Raph really wanted to understand this.

It was somewhat… novel.

When the other turtle gave his laymen’s synopsis if the brief lesson Donatello could not suppress the soft and endearing smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly. This is the check engine light. And this code simply means that the fuel injector needs some love.”

He packed away the small tablet into his messenger bag, giving the lense of the camera they were working on another thorough wipe down before folding his cloth up again and storing it away. As he stood once again to his full height and adjusted the strap of his bag he sheepishly added, “I can teach you how to work the system. It is actually really easy. I have it set up so that any of you can figure it out _if you need to_ …”

He realized quickly how bad that might sound as he said it, so quickly added with a playful chuckle, “Even Mike could figure this out. I even have a tutorial that plays out kind of like a mini game for most of the essential security tech. So…. Ya know, if you wanted to…. I can teach you.”

"Okay," Raphael agrees quietly. "But you can just show me. It don't gotta be a game..." He shrugs one shoulder as he admits, "Though, I bet Mike will get a kick outta that." He didn’t like what Don almost said -- what he basically _did_ say. These thoughts mirror his own far too closely. But it's much worse somehow, hearing these sentiments from Don himself. Hearing him _plan_ for it.

But it's still what has to happen. Maybe it's written in the stars, like Leo’s eyes, and there will be nothing he or anyone can do to stop it. He may very well convince Donatello that his life is worth living, only to have his brother snatched away by aliens on some calm, unsuspecting night. Gone without a trace. That could be his destiny, his fate. The word Leonardo used lately was _Karma_..

Raphael would rather not believe in any of that stuff. But recently he has been witness to some convincing evidence. Lately he believes in bad omens and prophetic dreams. The world is truly upside-down.

Before his head can spiral off into darkness any further, Raph plants his gaze back on the tablet and his thoughts in the here and now. "So we're done with this one, yeah? Camera's clean, passed it's tests good enough -- no, hold up!" He reaches down and stabs the button with his finger, making it show him the snapshot taken at the last detection. A picture of the two of them arriving appears on the screen.

"It took the picture. Looks good... well. This picture kinda looks like crap, actually." The mottled grey-green around his brow wrinkles as he thinks about it. "The last one weren't so blurry. Are you sure this one isn't fucked--"

The reason occurs to him mid-sentence, his rumpled expression wiping smooth with realization. "The picture was taken before you cleaned it."

Raphael takes the tablet without warning. His bandaged hand points a bit up the tunnel where the sensors originally captured them. "Donnie! Go stand over there," he demands.

It is plain to see that this isn't an order from Sergeant Raph, Official Squad Leader. This is Raphie on Christmas trying to figure out a new toy. His finger hovers over the take snapshot button. "No, you gotta back it up more! Quit playing around, you know where your damn cameras are aimed." He looks up from the tablet to beam at Donnie. "I am tryin' ta do important security diagnostics over here and you are just dicking around."

He had offered a brief nod of acknowledgment when his brother declined the use of the tutorial. It was not surprising to him in the slightest that it was not Raph’s cup of tea - that was not who he designed it for anyway.

The series of mini game teaching aides that rewarded the user with little virtual coins and prizes was definitely something he had designated for Mikey. Simple constructs that he thought would make it fun for him and were designed to be learned with the use of only one hand. _Just in case_.

Donatello let out a small sigh when Raph poked at his tablet, leaving a smudge on his typically pristine screen. He had begun the process of once again fetching his cleaning cloth as he replied, “Yes, that was before I cleaned it. Living in the sewer they get fogged up rather quic-- Hey! Raph!”

He stared dumbfounded up at his brother who had snatched the entire tablet from his hands and tells him to move along the tunnelway. The slack jawed astonishment at the red clad shinobi’s impertinence lasts for only a few moments before the grin on Raphael’s face becomes contagious and Don lets it slide, standing up to make his way over to where he had indicated. Almost. Donnie had only walked about half the distance to the optimal area for this picture to be taken before he turned around to face Raph with his arms folded across his chest and a raised brow. When he was called on his small defiance he let out a loud but playful sigh and stomped over to the point he knew Raph to be referring to, turning on his heel once again.

“I hope you don’t expect a fashion show, Raph. I am likely the least photogenic of our clan.”

"Pshhh... you think any of us is photogenic? What's a mutant ninja gotta be photogenic for, anyway? He's supposed to leave no trace!" All the while, Raph is snapping photos of his brother.

"But if you really wanna sashay down the sewer tunnel, I won't tell nobody," he teases with grand generosity. "I'll just accept you how you are."

He finally gets the perfect shot when Don flips him the bird. This uncomfortable body shyness and retaliating sass is exactly what Raphael expected, as opposed to some kind of fashion show. In spite of the rude gesture, Donnie is actually smiling in this picture. When was the last time anyone caught that on camera? Raph decides he likes the photo a lot.

Maybe there is a way to save it to his phone from the security computer back home. He doesn't want to be so obvious about it as to take a photo of the tablet with his shell cell, plus the picture would probably look shitty, with lines through it or something. Don himself would know how to retrieve the picture. He would probably know some way to transfer it to either of their phones in just a few button taps. But asking Don directly seems out of the question. He doesn't want to humiliate his introverted brother any more than he already has.

Raphael does hold the tablet up so Don can see the snapshot. "There, see?" he drawls in his old man voice. "Whad' I tell ya, kid? Yer a heartbreaker! Y'oughta be in pictures!" He hands the tablet back with a grin. But for a few new fingerprint smudges, it is none the worse for wear.

"Seriously though, picture quality looks good now," he declares. His tone probably makes it clear that he has decided to get back on track. "I mean, I know you probably got enough practice cleaning these cameras that you don't gotta check the quality of the picture afterwards, but that don't mean I shouldn't. At least til I get the hang of it, right? Anyway, let's get goin'. Lemme see if I can do the next one..."

They continue along the perimeter of their underground territory. The next cameras are all similar situations: if something is flagged, it's not an immediate concern and can wait until the next big planned system upgrade and repair Don mentioned. Raph dutifully wipes flecks of sewer sludge and debris off the cameras and motion detectors sensors. He gets to practice using some directional buttons to make minor adjustments to the camera angle. He gently tugs on mounted devices to make sure the adhesive is holding, which it always is. There is some kind of killer adhesive on these things. He eventually comments on it, and by the way that his brother smiles, Raph realizes that it must be something that Don homebrewed.

Once the route is complete, Raph knows it is time to get serious about the workout. Probably well past time, if he's being honest. Leonardo would never have devoted this much time to an activity that is not really even cardio. But at the same time, he does not really regret the extra time they spent -- nor does he think of it as truly wasted.

"Alright," he announces, once they are ready to set off again. "That was probably, what... little over a mile? So let's see if we can make it back to this spot in six minutes or less." His unbandaged hand claps Don hard on the back of the shell, then unclips his shell cell to check the time. "That's... by three fifty-two. Ya ready?"

Raph signals and the pair take off running.

They don't make it. They come close, but even so - Raph is surprised. He had thought six minutes should have been a reasonable goal. He'd been planning to push for an additional lap or two, but as Don comes to a stop beside him and mops his brow, Raphael abruptly changes his mind. "Eh, let's get back to the dojo," he suggests casually. Though motivated by pity, he is determined not to let it show. "We've still got a lot to cover."

Donatello had dutifully looked up at the camera which Raphael was adjusting and learning to manipulate, but could not help the urge to smirk and flip off the lense. In his usual fashion the genius had raised his right arm, splaying his fingers and sticking his thumb between them, by far his favorite way to gesture rudely to his brothers. When the red-clad shinobi turned the tablet to face him he simply rolled his eyes at the jestful comments and took the tablet back, wiping down the screen with his little microfiber cloth before storing them both - the cloth neatly folded, of course - back into the satchel at his hip.

He actually finds it rather fun to watch Raphael figure out the ins and outs of adjusting the system as they head to the next security point, and it is honestly a slight boost to his ego as the red clad shinobi makes comments here and there about the quality of the tech that he had taken so long to perfect.

Too soon, in his opinion, their small excursion through the tunnels repairing cameras has come to an end and it is time to actually begin exercising - something that Donatello is not looking forward to in his weary state. However - he has never been one to refuse direct orders during training, so when Raph tells him to run he sprints alongside his brother through the sewers.  
  
He is exhausted and the drugs that he had taken earlier in the day were beginning to wane far quicker than he had anticipated, likely due to the sudden flare of emotional upheaval which he had not prepared for when measuring out the doses. It does not happen often but there is the occasional misstep or stagger as he tries to keep up with what seems like the Hellish pace which Raph has set for them, though in fact it is a far slower pace than what Leo would have been willing to accept.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he used the back of his hand to wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow when they stopped in front of the door to the lair, thankful that the older shinobi elected to step inside, rather than have another go.

The rest of the session continues in a similar vein. After Junan Undo, they move on to rolls and breakfalls and then begin to drill all the usual kicks and strikes. Don's overall performance isn't what Raphael would call abysmal, but it continues to underwhelm. He doesn’t understand why. As far as he knows, Don got to sleep in and he actually ate something...

Throughout the session, the chunin is forced to call out numerous corrections. He will typically start with a prompt of, "Again!" with the expectation that Don ought to know what was wrong with his first attempt. Only when the same mistake is repeated does Raph clarify, "Footwork, Don!" or "Better, but it's gotta be like twice as fast!" More often than not, Don knows what is expected. He would be pissed if he thought his brother was slacking off and screwing up on purpose, but that doesn't seem to be the case. He's just... off his game. Lackluster and scattered.

A wooden knife and an equally fake (but realistically weighted) gun are brought out next to practice some freeform disarm techniques. Raphael manages to "kill" his brother only three times throughout the session. It's a relief to finally throw all of his efforts into combat. Time and again he tries to draw the gun or land a left-handed strike with the knife before Don's punishing bo staff can send the mock-weapon clattering to the floor. More often than not he wound up with Don's bo tapping some vital place that, in actual combat, would have been a debilitating blow. His brother has always been good at this kind of defense.

Due to his injury, they have to skip practicing throws as well as many of the more aggressive reversals and counters. All their best two-man combo attacks are also too dangerous to practice with a broken wrist. It's a shame, really. There is no one he trusts to launch him into the air quite like Donatello. The others don't have the geometry chops to pull off such throws with any regularity or precision... neither does Raph, for that matter. But he does have the prerequisite guts to be launched three times his own height into the air -- or made to fly across the room shell first, taking out multiple enemies like a cannonball.

"Let's finish with some actual lifting," Raph decides at some point well past sunset. This is a break from long tradition, so as they move to the upper mezzanine he feels obliged to explain, "You need to build muscle more than you need katas. You're plenty flexible. It's like... truthfully we're supposed ta work on solo shit like lifting weights _on our own time_." He half-grins, really trying to make light of it and keep the reprimand gentle. "But, y'know... like that's gonna happen. So, up and at 'em. You pick the weight, I'll pick the reps."

Donatello had never been the best fighter among the family when it came to brute force and hand to hand combat, but he was no novice either. Even as he was going through the same routines and practices that he and his family had drilled for the better part of their lives he knew that his reactions were sluggish and would likely result in him getting his ass kicked or worse in an actual fight.

He mentally berated himself each time that he heard the call of “Again!” or more specific reprimands shouted by his _temporary_ sensei. He should have known better than to let himself get this worn out and come off of the drugs so much before training. He could have asked for the bathroom or something before entering the dojo - up the dose. But he was passed the point of no return now and would simply have to make due with the limited resources available to him.

Each set of exercises wore him down a little more - his performance suffering a bit more with each one, a fact that he was certain did not escape Raphael, who had to shout corrections at him more frequently as the day went on. By the time that the other ninja had declared that it was time to lift weights the purple banded turtle felt as though he was dead on his feet. But in his typical stoic facade he began to follow Raph up to the mezzanine to start weight lifting without uttering a single complaint.

He walked over to the rack of weights and knew that he was capable of managing some of the far heavier weights but elected to grab a set of modestly weighted thirty pound dumbbells instead of trying to push himself. He had turned to Raph to get the order for reps, but suddenly he felt his head begin to swim, his vision tunnelling.

He had definitely pushed himself too hard. He did not faint, but rather dropped the weights with a resounding crash onto the floor before rushing over to a small garbage can, contributing the contents of his stomach to the small amount of refuse already within it.

Raphael was sort of hoping and dreading Don would go for the bench press. As he said, the turtles normally visit this portion of the dojo on their own time. It’s common to work out alone here, but when they do bump into one another they will often take advantage of the company and spot for one another on the bench press. Raph is very aware of what Leonardo can bench, and he knew Mike’s numbers too -- though they have probably dropped in the six months that he has been on his own. Too many skipped meals, and not enough discipline to push himself when he is tired or hurting. Donnie, on the other hand… he tends to work out alone, or not at all lately. Raph has no idea what Don can bench these days, but after a session like this one he would really like to know that number. It will give him a better idea of how far behind the rest of them Don has been lagging, at least in terms of sheer strength.

Barbells will not tell him anything, but they are truthfully not a bad option for bulking up the arms. He decides to allow it. The choice of a thirty pound weight is, again, underwhelming. It would be a decent choice for a human, but Raphael has always held the team to a higher standard than that. On the other hand, it’s not the lightest weight he could have picked.

Raph had already been looking straight at Don, wearing that infuriating furrow of too-obvious concern, his lips pursed in an effort not to make the first two or three automatic and potentially disparaging comments that sprung to his lips. So he sees it all -- the way his brother’s face wipes blank and dazed, the barbells which seem to plummet in slow motion, and Donnie spinning away from him. His first dumbfounded guess is that Donatello is actually going to flee the dojo -- storm off in some kind of huff rather than lift thirty pound weights. His mouth forms an uncertain snarl, one part temper and two parts confusion. Then all the heat drains out of him as he hears his brother start to wretch, watches him huddle and shake over the trash bin.

Raphael is there beside him in just a few strides. He crouches down a bit and tilts his head to study his brother’s wan face. If this were Mikey, he would absolutely expect that this was a trick to get out of training early. But Don’s not the sort to cry wolf about an illness. Don is actually a lot more likely to hide it when he’s sick. He never wants anyone’s help or pity.

 _Tell me what’s wrong with you._ That’s what he wants to say. Or perhaps shout, while shaking Don back and forth in frustration. He does none of these things. Instead he just reaches out to tug the long tails of the purple bandana back from where they dangle over Don’s shoulders. He drapes them straight down the back of his brother’s carapace instead.

“If you ain’t feeling well, you should’ve told me sooner,” he rumbles quietly. “I ain’t tryin’ to be a slave driver, y’know? Anyway, I guess we’re done for the day.”

Raphael can’t help wondering if perhaps Don’s own embarrassment has made him ill. It hasn’t been his best session ever. Maybe he’s got some kind of anxiety over the bench press. It’s all just guesses though, nothing he can get behind with all of his gut. This brother has always been the hardest to fathom. He’s not certain enough to bring it up directly, but he does gently assert, “But, tomorrow? We’re _lifting weights_ , Don. We’re doin’ it before all the ninjutsu stuff. And -- look, I don’t _care_ what your numbers are, okay? Whatever it is, we got plenty of time to turn it around.”

He gives Don’s shoulder an awkward pat and struggles for what to say next. He wants to take back all the assurances he just blurted and start over. “Maybe I can find somethin’ ta settle your stomach,” he offers lamely, taking a step towards retreat. Not that he thinks Don will actually eat whatever he brings, but it seems like the right thing to do. That, and it will give Don what Raph figures his genius brother really needs right now, more than anything -- the space in which to compose himself.

Donatello rested his head which had begun to throb in pain on the rim of the garbage can, trying to ignore the acrid smell of bile and that god awful protein shake that now lay a few inches from his beak.

He shut his eyes briefly, trying to reorient himself as Raph knelt next to him and moved the tails of his mask away. He heard Raph’s reprimand but barely registered that which his brother was saying to him, merely nodding as if to agree with whatever it was Raphael was spouting off about. He vaguely picked up something about tomorrow’s training as well as heard his brother mention that he was going to get him something to put on his stomach.

The purple clad shinobi shook his head and forced himself into a wobbly and unsteady standing position, quietly mumbling, “No. I… I just need to lay down. Just for a minute.”

“Yeah, okay,” Raphael agrees automatically, aborting his tactical retreat in favor of standing idle and uncertain. He glances down at the fallen dumbbells, then scoops to retrieve them and set them back in their proper place on the rack, just so his brother does not feel obligated.

He draws close again and his gaze on Donatello is piercing. It’s so plain to see the gears turning furiously, trying to make sense of the clues in front of him, but he simply does not understand.

“C’mon… I’ll help you back to your room,” he says finally, hesitantly. “But -- Donnie, seriously. You can take more than a minute. Lay down as long as you gotta! There is nothin’ else for us to get to. Nothing major broken. Nobody topside stirring up shit and demanding a beat down. There is literally nothin’ more important to me right now than getting you back on your feet, okay?”

Donatello took a few deep breaths as he tried to regain his balance, slowly shuffling towards the small flight of stairs that leads down into the main chamber of the dojo from the mezzanine as his brother dutifully places the dumbbells he had discarded back into their proper place.

Even the idea of reaching his personal chambers was daunting with the way that his head was spinning, but the purple clad shinobi was already set on his path before Raph’s offer of help registered to him.

All it takes is a single misjudged placement of his foot on the first stair to send the younger terrapin down them ungracefully, landing on his shell with a resounding thud and a pained gasp as the air was forced from his lungs.

“Damn,” Raph mutters, gazing down in surprise from the top of the stairs. He is immobile for just another stunned moment or two before flying down the half-flight of stairs two at a time to quickly reach his fallen brother.

This time all of his caution and consideration for Donnie’s pride is tossed right out the window. He reaches down to drag his brother off the floor and unceremoniously throws him over one shoulder. “Don’t fight me,” he warns in a low voice that is firm but not unkind. “We are getting you ta bed, and that’s that.”

Unless he really chooses to fight dirty, Don is hauled bodily out of the dojo, carried up the stairs to the second floor, and deposited onto his bed.

Donatello felt his equilibrium shift as he was heaved onto his brother’s shoulder, his head lolling pathetically as Raph walked, jostling him slightly with each step. He did not fight his brother, all of his focus was instead aimed at simply not dry heaving with each movement.

The genius did not feel like such a genius at the moment. He had allowed too long to pass without so much as a power nap and not given himself enough of a boost to compensate, in the stress of everything that had happened the last few days he had simply forgotten how strenuous being paired with Raphael could be during training and his brother had honestly been taking it very easy on him this morning.

He felt as though he may be sick again as he was shifted onto the bed, but almost immediately went into a fetal position, clutching his pillow to his face and chest, taking a few deep breaths to try calming his stomach.

Raphael made every effort to be gentle, both during the transport and now, lowering Don onto the dark purple bedspread and taking an uneasy seat on the edge of the bed. He eases his considerable weight onto the mattress slowly, not wanting to jostle his ill sibling any further -- not confident that his company is even desired at this point.

As he looks Don over again, he sees so much that is concerning: his brother's pallor, the curled and miserable body language, and how much thinner those arms seem to him now, in such close proximity to his own. The change came on so gradually, and seeing one another on a daily basis as they do, it has been easy to overlook. But after today's eye-opening session, the point has been driven home pretty hard: his genius brother's situation is worse than any of them have suspected. He has no idea how much of the problem is physical and how much of it is mental and emotional. All Raphael knows for sure is that it is up to him to turn this around somehow.

 _Oh, yeah. Your "help" today sure has done him a whole lotta' good so far_ , the dour terrapin can't help pointing out to himself. _Face it. You are way outta your league here._

"I don't think we have any ginger ale left," Raph announces solemnly. Actually, he knows they don't. There hasn't been ginger ale in the lair since Master Splinter lived there. He's really just trying to drown out his gloomy cookie voice of reason as he goes on to add, "There's crackers, but. They, uh... they might be stale." He knows they are. He ate a couple himself after those pain pills Don gave him upset his stomach, and the texture was so bad that he had nearly thrown them out.

The silence stretches. Everything Raph can think of to say next is completely useless.

Donatello briefly opened his eyes to look up at Raph as the older turtle spoke. He did not like the way that his brother was looking at him. The concern and disapproval that smoldered behind his pale green eyes.

 _So much for keeping a low profile_ , he thinks to himself solemnly between residual waves of nausea.

The genius very lightly shakes his head at the offer of crackers and pointed lazily at his desk, “Water. Just in the top drawer. And there is Drammamine in the bathroom cabinet.”

 _Maybe I will be able to write this off as an actual sickness or just brought on by the stress of everything that has happened with Leo and Mike_ , he wonders, the thoughts churning in his head unhappily, much as they would when trying to solve a problem that had long eluded him. _How could I have miscalculated so badly? I only hope that Raph does not read into this too much._

Raphael is quick to jump up and carry out Donatello's requests, eager to turn his efforts towards something useful. First he goes for the water, reaching into the drawer Don directed him towards and pulling one free from a half-depleted plastic wrapped pack of bottles his brother has stored there. He drops it onto the bed beside Don and says, "I'll be back with your medicine."

Raphael doesn’t dally in the second task either. Barely a minute has passed before he returns with the requested medication in hand. He is squinting at the back of the plastic bottle as he enters, skimming the small print. Skipping past the warnings and drug interactions, he is looking for dosage information. He already knows the biggest side effect to worry about with this stuff is that it will most likely make Don sleepy. Raphael is more than okay with that.

The dosage chart says that adult humans take 1-2 tablets every 4-6 hours, but for them it is more complicated. Donatello himself had been the one who explained to Raph that their metabolisms are roughly twice as efficient as the average human, so with drugs that rely on the metabolism to be delivered such as codeine or morphine, they need about half the normal dosage. But then there are other drugs which work a lot worse because they are broken down and stop working as they are digested. Stuff like heart-burn medications, or even the Adderall that Mike agreed to start taking until Don gave up the venture, concluding that their brother would have to take a low dosage every 2.25 hours to maintain a sustained beneficial effect. Everybody knew Mike was way too A.D.D. to remember to take meds every couple hours. Catch-22, Don had called it.

So the real question is, what kind of drug is Dramamine? It's supposed to make you stop feeling sick right away, so... no. He just isn't sure. Suddenly the chunin realizes that it's all pointless. He probably couldn't get the damn childproof cap off by himself! Anyway, Don will know how many anti-barf pills he should take.

"Hey. Brought your shit." As he says this, Raph's left arm extends to prod Donatello's arm with the edge of the bottle. A cheerful bedside manner is not one of his specialties

Donatello reached out a hand to grasp the bottle of water that Raph had brought to him, holding the cool plastic close to his chest for a few moments before turning slightly to allow himself to fumble with the lid before taking a small drink. While he felt incredibly thirsty he knew that it was important to keep the sips small enough to not upset his stomach again.

He had barely even registered that Raph had left until his brother was back with the anti-nausea medication from in the bathroom. This he also took and popped the cap off of, snagging a single pill from within the bottle before replacing the cap and simply letting it drop onto the bed beside him. He lifted himself slowly, propping his weight with his elbow as he took the pill quickly with a swig of water before lowering himself back onto the deep purple quilt below him.

The genius brought one of his large wrapped hands up to wipe his face wearily as he mumbled to his older brother, his words betraying the level of exhaustion he felt having come down from his drug induced alertness far quicker than he had anticipated, “Thanks Raph… I’m sorry for disrupting training. I… I think I will be right as rain if I just take a rest for a little while. Could… Could you just shut off that light? I just need to close my eyes for a minute or two…”

 

Right as rain. Only Donatello could get away with using such an old-fashioned term... actually, that's not true. Leo also might say something that dorky. He just wouldn't get away with it -- mostly because Leo, at the end of the day, was a lot more concerned with being cool than Donatello.

A fond smile had touched Raph's lips briefly at these sappy fraternal thoughts, but all too soon the severity of the situation comes crashing back down on him. After the performance he witnessed today, not to mention the terrible revelations of this weekend, the very idea that his genius brother will be 'right as rain' any time soon, or by something so minor as taking a cat nap... all of that sounds pretty fucking ludicrous to Raph.

"Put trainin' outta your mind, okay? You got through most of it. It don't matter right now," he insists quietly, even though is not completely true.

In spite of the casual, easy-going attitude he had projected, Raph had put planning and consideration into both the content of the training session as well as how best to run it smoothly. It had been one of his goals to minimize confrontation, to show his willingness to be flexible and fair. That his session might be too strenuous for his brother to keep up with had not once occurred to him. Near the end he had seen it and lightened up accordingly, demanding less reps or pretending to think about what to have Don do next just to give him a bit of a breather at no cost to his already suffering pride. Even that had not been enough.

But all of these concerns are better left for Raphael to shoulder. Right now he only wants Donatello to concentrate on his immediate recuperation. He leans down and squeezes his brother's shoulder briefly as goes on to say, "We can re-evaluate how yer feelin' tomorrow. But after the way you fell back there, I'm thinkin' you better give it more than just a couple minutes. Take a proper nap, okay? I'll check on you in a bit. I might slip outside to smoke but I ain't goin' far, in case--"

_In case what? He wakes up screaming from the horrific nightmares he's probably gonna have? Don't fucking say that._

"Anyway, I'll be here," he concludes in a quieter voice. He stands up straight again, prepared to depart.

Donatello did not remove his hand from his face, instead he lay motionless, staring at the back of his eyelids as Raph spoke. His brother was trying to sound nonchalant about the whole ordeal, but Don was far too clever to fall for the farce. He had thoroughly freaked Raphael out. Worst of all he had drawn attention to his declining health in a very conspicuous way.

_How are we going to be able to focus on stopping Karai and the uprising of the Foot if Raph is instead worried about me taking a little spill down the stairs and making a far bigger deal of it than what is necessary? It is not like I am the first of us to go down during training. And I have never seen him carry any of the other guys like a sack of potatoes to bed because of it._

As the red clad shinobi stood and said that he will not go far “in case” the genius waved his free hand lazily and mumbled, “I have my phone if I need you. Please shut off the light.”

_Of course he will not go far. He is far too freaked out by his unstable little brother to leave me alone. ‘In case’ he says. We both know that means he thinks I am on the brink of a psychotic break. He does not even trust me enough to leave me in bed without a reminder that he is right outside my door._

_Damn it, Donatello..._

_You know that he is just trying to look out for you. You confided in Raph for a reason, so that he could be your support when you couldn't support yourself. To catch you when you fall… which he literally just tried to do._

_He is trying to help. And you are so fucked up it can't be easy to do._

_The least you can do is give him some fucking slack._

He turned his body to press his face into his pillow and called out, though his voice was muffled, as his light was turned off, “Thank you, Raphie. I will let you know when I wake up.”


	11. Cycles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raphael reaches out to Leonardo for help after coming to terms with the fact that he may be in over his head with Donatello, only to realize that the clan’s fearless leader may also be in no state to lead them.

Once he has left Donatello in his room to recover, Raphael makes a pit stop to use the restroom and returns the bottle of Dramamine to the cabinet where he found it.

As he is washing his hands, he catches sight of his strained and unhappy face in the bathroom mirror. _Christ_ , why does he have to broadcast everything he is feeling on his stupid face? It doesn’t seem very ninja-like. He looks at himself, and slowly lifts his hand to cover one eye. He imagines a terrible gash beneath his palm, a puckered empty socket, his depth perception forever flattened. Fate...

 _Knock it off,_ he growls at himself, whirling away from his reflection. He forgets to flush the toilet in his haste to get away from his haunted thoughts.

From there, Raphael takes the closest route around the upper balcony and down the stairs. Stressful and frustrating as today has been, his next priority is a nicotine fix. That means trudging out of the lair and into the tunnels just outside their front door. To invade Don's lab while his brother isn't in there is unthinkable. Privacy is something Raphael has always valued.

But what should his next move be? What option is left other than to haunt the silent lair like a restless ghost, with his head locked in an endless cycle of worry and self-recrimination? Raphael is afraid to be trapped alone with these thoughts -- afraid of the mood he may have cultivated by the time Don does awaken.

 _This family means so much to me_ , he thought, and such a surge of emotion overcame him that he was forced to pause near the bottom of the stairwell and grip the rail. _It's been the hardest thing in the world, watching them fall apart. Not understanding why or what to do...I got no idea why Mike has been so angry. I got no idea why Leo is so sad. With Don, I thought we were getting somewhere. Sometimes it seems like we are closer than we have ever been... but then something like this happens, and I realize that I don't know shit!_

 _God, I can't afford to think this way. Where is that lone wolf mentality when I need it?_ the turtle wonders bitterly. He pushes away from the rail and continues on his way towards the large double doors that are the main route in and out of their underground lair.

But Raph knows this has been part of his own healing process, recognizing these early signs of increasingly toxic thoughts and reaching out to someone in his family. He can't bring himself to be so dramatic and obvious as to come out and ask for anybody's help, but finding someone he could safely vent at, or even just burying himself in whatever they were doing for a while, was often all he needed to get his head back in the game.

Lately, Don himself is the person Raph goes to most often. Before that, it had been Leo. Following their reconciliation six years ago, they had been thick as thieves for a time, hanging out almost every night. Raph is not sure exactly when that changed, it happened so gradually.

Not that it matters right now. Raphael knows he will have to work this out on his own. Literally everyone he might care to talk to is out of reach.

But as he passes the entrance to his father's treasure room, the turtle suddenly wonders if that is true after all. A fresh possibility springs to mind as he considers the necklace lying right there on the shelf.

He snags it and slips it around his neck on his way out the door.

It's possible that this is a bad idea. Leo can be crazy perceptive, especially where Raphael is concerned. He is halfway through his cigarette before he works up the nerve to say anything.

The chunin looks down at the necklace and feels very stupid as he lifts it to his mouth and speaks into it. "Hello? Uh... is this thing working? Can you hear me?"

"Loud and poorly timed as always, Raph," he can hear his brother sigh.

Raph jumps and looks over his shoulder reflexively, but of course no one is there. He immediately decides, "That's fucked up. How does it do that? No, don't tell me."

"Full disclosure, Raph. I, uh." He hears his brother clear his throat softly. "I can also see you when you use the necklace."

Raph feels his stomach drop out and huffs an explosive sigh. He stubs his cigarette out against the bricks and leans his shell against the tunnel wall as he mutters, "Asshole. Coulda told me that ahead of time. What if I called you on the john?"

He tries to console himself with the fact that the fact that Leo isn't flipping his shit yet, which probably means he already had a clue. Raph is pretty sure he is the least sneaky turtle in the Hamato clan these days.

The days since he left his home in New York had been filled with trivial meetings, Jonin of other clans making his acquaintance and trying to form allegiances with the Hamatos. Each new face was met with an air of propriety and dignity, but never did the young shinobi master let his guard down among these people. None of them were friends to him and none could be trusted. Any new ally could turn on him just as easily as they pledged friendship and they likely would if it proved that there was even the slightest thing to gain by doing so.

When he was not being bombarded by these ninja, there was the council themselves. Since he was already in the compound and stuck here until such a time that Mikey’s trials were completed one way or another, the council had deemed that some of Leonardo’s free time be spent allowing them to evaluate the training methods which were used by the Hamato’s, comparing them to the efficiency of training which Splinter had given the clan.

It was beyond nerve wracking, being actively compared to his father. The fear that he may not measure up to the challenge was by far one of his greatest insecurities, but he tried with all he had to not let any weakness show and to do his father proud.

He had one such meeting with the council the previous evening which was unexpectedly interrupted by a lean shinobi who resembled an anthropomorphic calico cat, whom he almost immediately recognized as a member of the Neko clan from Usagi’s world. His confusion on the Jonin’s appearance was dispelled when Kagemaru, as he introduced himself to be, gave a detailed report on both Michelangelo and Usagi’s doings the past few days.

The turtle lay on his bed, rubbing his face wearily as the report echoed in his mind.

_“The pair have been on the road towards the Geishu province in the South. From what I have gathered they are hoping to find the lad a sensei to help hone his magics at the suggestion of the ronin, who interpreted the scroll which was left for Michelangelo to decipher._

_When I left them they had just entered Niigata, a port town, to stock their supplies and have also decided to postpone setting on the road again, instead staying to indulge in the matsuri taking place there currently.”_

Leo groaned, wishing that the ronin had put his foot down and forced Mikey to take his trial period seriously. He should have at least made him translate his own scroll. But he could not be mad at Usagi for this. He had left him with little to no instruction and regardless of the horrible insult he had left the samurai with when they had briefly spoken a few nights before, Miyamoto was still standing by his promise and trying to help Michelangelo. It is not the ronin’s fault that his brother has the attention span of a fruit fly.

Another heavy sigh left his lips as the necklace around his neck flared to life, a spectre-like image of Raphael appearing in his room.

 _More good news_ , he thought sarcastically to himself as he sat up and answered the red-clad shinobi.

" _Hello? Uh... is this thing working? Can you hear me?_ " Raphael spoke into the necklace as though it were a microphone, earning a shake of the head from the jonin.

"Loud and poorly timed as always, Raph," he replied with a heavy sigh.

If he was not so worried about what message it was that Raph might be bringing him, he may have laughed as his second in command spun around, looking for the source of his voice. It was then that he spotted the cigarette in Raph’s hand, clearly already halfway gone. "Full disclosure, Raph. I, uh." He said, clearing his throat and pointing at the smoke, even though he knew that Raphael was unable to see him. "I can also see you when you use the necklace."

His brother’s next comment did bring a chuckle to his lips, but it only lasted for just a moment. “I would hope that you would show me a _tiny bit_ more respect than trying to talk to me while using the restroom.” He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his beak in an irritated fashion, realizing that it very much seemed like something that may happen in their home.

“To what do I owe the honor, Raph?” He finally asked, hoping that his stress did not shine through in his voice.

"Hmmm. Me, show you the respect you think you deserve? Like... what, _outta nowhere?"_

Raphael flicks the mashed butt into the canal in front of him and smirks. "Do you even know me? I am definitely calling you on the john next time. I'll eat a bunch of White Castle sliders first, and keep the necklace on my lap the whole time so you get a real good earful."

Leonardo’s face winces in disgust momentarily as his brother paints a truly horrifying image that even his blind eyes cannot unsee.

“Charming as ever, Raphael. Now, did you have something you actually needed to speak to me about or was the purpose of this conversation merely to put me off my breakfast?”

"I know, I know," Raph grumbles. "Yer allowed to talk to me on this thing about official clan business only. You only said so in your letter about a billion times."

He frowns and adds, "But that is some bullshit that you can see me and I can't see you."

Leonardo grinned slightly at the spectral form of his brother, shaking his head at the comment, “Yes, the world is full of injustices. I apologize that this arrangement is upsetting but truly you are not missing out on a whole lot.”

He sat up in his bed, stretching his arms above his head as he asked, “So, what is it you needed?”

Raphael half expected his brother would remedy the situation by suddenly appearing before him. His brother is capable of amazing things lately. It's too bad. It would have been nice to see his annoying face.

"I never said... I don't _need_ anything," Raph insists, folding his arms defensively and looking away. "I just..." He blows out another one of those heavy sighs. "I had us do training today. For the first time. Like, my own routine, not doing exactly what you said to do for once. But it, uh... it didn't go so great."

Raphael, grand master of understatement.

The statement was not reassuring in the slightest. He had hoped that the first report that he would have received from Raph would have been positive. Raphael had seemed to be connecting with Donatello in a way that he simply was unable to lately. He hoped that their younger brother would have been more cooperative under this new temporary management.

He let out a groan before asking, “What did he do?”

_When did Michelangelo and Donatello become the problem children of the Hamato clan?_

"No. Ain't like that!" Just from his brother's tone, Raph can hear the comparison being made to the many combative sessions Leonardo has endured trying to serve as Michelangelo’s sensei. "He didn’t fight me, tried everything I asked him to do! He was a trooper... maybe too much of one, y'know? I swear I wasn't tryin' to make it a tough session. Felt like I was takin' it easy on him, if anything! But... I didn't know he was sick. Or whatever's goin' on. I had no way of knowing! Maybe -- maybe I shoulda seen it. He started lookin' rough I guess. His performance got worse, but I didn't think -- he didn't say a word, Leo! Right up until the weights fell out of his hands and he was almost passing out and puking..."

Raphael shakes his head in dismay. "I had to call it quits early. But by then he couldn't even walk. I think he musta almost passed out again 'cause he fell down the stairs to the mezzanine. I had to pick him up and carry him to bed! I feel so fucking bad about it. He looked so miserable. I know now, I shoulda called it quits sooner. But a part of me thinks he might’a did this to himself. I mean, the guy barely sleeps. We almost got into it this morning cause I forced him to eat breakfast before we trained. He got real pissed at me for it."

The blind shinobi is silent as Raphael speaks. He knew that Donatello’s health had been on the decline. He had seen it himself. Had even had several quite explosive conversations with his brilliant younger brother about what a priority his health was. But recently Donatello had become distant, combative, and was likely to snap at a moment's notice.

This newest information did absolutely nothing to ease his mind about the future of his purple clad brother.

He looked up at Raph, even though the other could not see him. “If Donatello will not care for himself you may have to take matters into your own hands.”

"Are you _sure_? Because I really don't know if I should!" Raphael counters unhappily. "That's been the hardest thing, Leo... knowing when to be his leader and when to be his friend. Because I can't be both. And my gut is telling me he needs a friend right now. If it ain't me, then who's left?"

Raph unfolds his arms to gesticulate as he speaks. "How is he supposed to deal with - with _anything_ if it feels like he got nobody in his corner, Leo? But it's so hard to walk that tightrope, tryin' ta be both!"

“How is he supposed to deal with anything if he cannot manage a flight of stairs, Raph?” Leo snapped. He did not mean to sound upset with Raphael. He knew that the shinobi was simply trying to do his best in the situation that he was stuck in.

In a much softer tone he added, “Raph… I left you in charge because I trust you to look after the well being of our clan in my absence. I trust that you will be able to deal with Don. But remember that sometimes it is far more important to set firm boundaries than it is to be a friend. He is smart enough to figure out that you are trying to advocate for him.”

"Yeah, cause that's worked great for you so far..." Raphael grumbles. "I don't feel like you would be sayin' that if you understood how bad things really are for him. Right now I am the one person who can sometimes reach him, and you are telling me to risk that."

Leonardo scoffed at the comment. It was true, and he hated it. The more he had tried to fill the role of sensei and take hold of the mantel that Splinter had left for him, the more that the two youngest of his clan had begun to pull away from him in their own ways. Mikey had gotten himself into worlds of trouble and Don was practically falling apart at the seams. He knew now what Michelangelo had gotten himself into and he had suspicions as to the depths Donatello had sunk.

And even if his suspicions were no more than speculation, they were still cause for worry.

An idea dawned on him. The idea of it made his stomach churn slightly, but the prospect of confirming his fears while simultaneously aiding Raph in his current endeavors was enough to give it voice.

“There is another option.” he said cautiously. “In my room, in my footlocker are a few items that I confiscated from Michelangelo earlier this year.”

He rubbed his face wearily before letting out a prolonged sigh and continuing, “Our little brother, as I am sure you are aware, developed quite the taste for weed. I really felt as though I could not condone the behaviour, so I took it away and locked it up. You say that Donnie is not sleeping nor eating and has been anxious and on edge. It seems to me that, until he is able to push past this, it may be the lesser evil to allow him to indulge.”

Leo shook his head, groaning unhappily. He hated the thought of any of his brothers on drugs. But a thought rung through the disapproval, his genius brother - if he was immediately willing to participate in this without that logical mind of his telling him that it was an unwise choice it was very likely that he had already turned down a similar path of self medication on his own volition.

The jonin cleared his throat and added in a stern voice that left no room for debate on the matter, “Having said that, if it is the path you choose to follow where Donatello is concerned I expect that my participation and my permission in this matter are to be held in the strictest confidence between you and I. I will not have my clan believe that I condone this behaviour. This is merely a desperate time that calls for a desperate measure.”

"Wow," Raph finally comments when he is able to overcome his surprise enough to speak. He has been aware of the ongoing marijuana drama between Leo and Mike -- more aware than he has broadcasted, anyway, in his efforts to not somehow wind up in the middle of it.

He knows, for example, that for a time Leonardo had tried a more lenient approach with Michelangelo directly. He had set restrictions based upon frequency and quantity, and for time it seemed to work. Michelangelo had been impressed with his big brother's attempt to keep an open mind, and initially adhered to Leonardo's restrictions down to the letter. This first attempt at leniency was also meant to be a secret and desperate measure, one which Leonardo must not seem to condone openly to the rest of the team. That "secret" lasted all of five minutes. Mike was so impressed with Leonardo's compromise, he couldn't help bragging about it.

Raph knew that it had been an effective technique, but only for a time. Once Mike's mystic abilities began to present themselves, once he started getting real secretive and stressed and started going off on his own, he stopped following Leo’s guidelines and started getting baked whenever the hell he wanted to. If Leo were ever to ask Raph which side of this particular battle he supported -- once he got past the knee jerk evasions of not wanting to get involved, anyway -- Raphael would actually back Leo on this one. Mike agreed to a deal, and then he reneged on it. It's as simple as that, and as far as he's concerned, Leo had every right at that point to go back to confiscating Mike's shit all the time and acting like a nagging school teacher. Raph knows his big brother can't have enjoyed either scenario very much. But he sees now that being the leader and working towards the greater good means being regularly railroaded down paths you never would have taken otherwise.

"Geez. You know I don't even smoke, right? I --" A flush hits his cheeks and makes his gaze drop to his lap with a scowl. "Well, I -- I mean, I smoke. I just don't usually smoke that. No bullshit, I honestly never saw the appeal. Think I tried it when I was twelve or thirteen maybe? Normally I'd just rather get drunk, but -- that won't help Donnie, not with his stomach all jacked. I swear, it's like it pains him to eat. So... yeah, maybe."

He shakes his head again and nearly laughs as he adds, "Jesus, still I can't believe yer askin' me to do this."

Leonardo stood from his bed, shaking his head woefully as he grabbed his trench coat off of a kimono hanger on his wall. He threw on the item and turned to his brother with his arms folded across his chest disapprovingly. He almost wished that he had appeared before Raph just so the other could see the gesture. Perhaps next time.

“I do not approve of your smoking either, Raph. If it begins to interfere with your performance or the well being of the clan in anyway I trust that you know my hand will be forced to put a stop to it.”

The shinobi master scoffed and added, “And I did not _ask_ you to take that road with Donnie. It is simply an option that I won't kick your ass for trying.”

" Yeah... sure thing, Leo," Raphael drawls, giving his brother a knowing look -- or doing the best he can without actually being able to see the guy. "I'll shoulder the blame for this one if it helps ya sleep at night. Anyway, ain't like I got any better idea of what to do."

He gives another of his classic snorts, a bitterly amused huff to punctuate his next insistence, "But you ain't stoppin’ shit when it comes to me. We both know I'm in better physical condition than anyone on this team -- yourself included, ever since you been spending so much time mucking around with ninja politics and magic. The minute that starts to change, you can bet I'm gonna be the one to put a stop to it. Until then, I'm a grown fucking man and honestly the least of your worries right now.

"So, y'know... step the hell off my nuts." Raph touches two fingers to his forehead and flicks them away in a mock salute as he adds, " _Respectfully_."

Leo chuckled and shook his head at Raph’s performance. It seemed like lately the red clad shinobi was the only one that was able to break his stoic visage. After Splinter died he really felt like Raph stepped up for him and the two of them became very close for a time. Recently they had not been together as often, Raph was spending more and more time with the troubled Donatello and Leo would never begrudge him for that. But he did miss the one on one conversations with Raph more than he could really express in that moment.

With a half grin he quipped, “Blaming you is how I have managed to sleep at night for years. It works _wonders_.”

“And consider your nuts no longer stepped on, Raph. You are a big boy and you definitely not my biggest problem right now.” With a soft and somewhat saddened chuckle he added, “If someone would have told me a few years ago that Donatello would be far more worrisome for me than you were I would have thought they had gone completely insane.”

That went so much better than how Raph thought it would when he had been dreading the conversation. Of course, he also hadn't been expecting to have it quite so soon.

"Sorry to dump more worry on ya," Raph says quietly. He has started fiddling with his bandage. The skin of his tightly bound wrist itches. "I know you got some kinda shit storm to deal with in Japan or you wouldn't be there right now. I was just... kinda tripping over how bad it went today."

Raphael flashes a brief smile and confesses reluctantly, "I already miss trainin' with ya, Leo. Like, I totally get why you needed to work with Mike so much when he was around. He needs to get that shit under control in a serious way. But when he went off to do his trials, getting you back in the dojo was like the only good thing to come outta that, you know? And now yer gone again."

With a solemn nod Leo sighed, “That is actually the most eloquent way that I can think of to put words to what I am dealing with over here.”

He returns the smile that Raph had given him when a swell of affection rose in him. “I have really loved having a good sparring partner as well. They have been in very short supply for… well, quite awhile now. I promise that when I return home we will spar again, brother. Mikey is already on the path of his trials once again, so hopefully that day is sooner rather than later.”

"God, I hope so," Raphael agrees. "It always gets weird when one of us is gone for a long time. You'd think I would be used to it by now. Now we're two down for the first time ever."

The turtle wraps his good arm around his lower chest plates, hooking his fingers on the edge of the plastron. "I don't know what to do with all this peace and quiet. What do I do once I start feelin' stir crazy? I can't even hit the bag. Hopefully Donnie is smart enough to figure out some projects I can help with, even one-handed..."

He could certainly understand feeling stir crazy, even before he was trapped in this temple of sages, away from all of those he held dear, Leo often felt the oppression of the too quiet lair. When Michelangelo left their midst their home has seemed more empty to him. Even though he had been fighting with the youngest Hamato often lately, his presence was still dearly missed.

He could only imagine the stillness of the lair now that an additional turtle, even be it himself, was absent.

“I have always found that meditating in Dad's room helps me, Raph. Even though I know that you are not particularly fond of meditation, you may gain some peace from it too.” He chuckled softly and added, “That or there is always YouTube.”

"Nah, stupid cat videos and autotune garbage is really more Mike's thing," Raph rejects the second idea outright.

The first is trickier.

"And... well, I already bugged dad once today," Raphael admits after an uncertain pause, sounding decidedly shy about it. "Not really meditating, just... talkin' to him. Prayin', I guess. I don't want his spirit to get sick of me whining to him all the time."

“Raph,” Leo calls out softly to his brother, shaking his head even though he wore a kind and understanding smile on his face.

“If dad did not get sick of my constant intrusions and begging for advice in life, which he did not, I am sure that his spirit will not begrudge you coming around to talk to him. He always enjoyed talking to us whenever we were open enough to talk to him. I am certain that the same holds true now.”

"Yeah, yer probably right," Raph agrees. "I just dunno what else I could even say. I don't have any answers... I don't think I even have the right questions. Everything is so complicated right now. I almost miss the simplicity of us versus the Shredder. Us versus the world."

Raphael reaches into his belt and pulls out another smoke, but stops when he sees the weird eagle thing printed on the side of it. _Shit... this is the one that belongs to Donnie_. He can't smoke that. He said he would give it back, and still intends to keep that promise. He should have grabbed a few more from his room before heading out here. Sliding it back into the belt pocket with a sigh, the turtle concludes, "Times of peace are way more tricky, if you ask me."

“Times of peace are quite tricky,” Leo agrees before narrowing his unseeing eyes and solemnly continuing, “But you are not in a time of peace, Raphael. It may not be ‘us versus The Shredder’ or ‘us versus the world’ but right now you are certainly facing ‘Raphael versus Donatello’s mental illness’ which may be an even more fearsome enemy, one that currently has our brother captive as a prisoner of war “

He shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his trenchcoat and began to pace the length of his room. “Perhaps conceptualizing the enemy as such will make it easier to to form a battle plan. You are at a disadvantage though, seeing as our tactician is under it's control.”

"Under it's control..." Raphael doesn't seem to like that. "You talk like it ain't _reasonable_. Like it ain't what any of us would be feeling in his situation. But that ain't how it is. I'm pretty sure it would be worse -- at least, if it had happened to me. I wouldn't be keeping my shit together half so well. You know I can't tell you everything, but.. I can tell you that much. He's been real strong, Leo. For all our sakes."

His tone was not defensive, rather Leonardo spoke with genuine concern and curiosity, “How am I supposed to come to th the conclusion that this reaction is reasonable when I have been kept almost entirely in the dark about it? I have no idea what Donatello is going through, I only see my brother who has always had more potential than the lot of us, in many ways, becoming aggressive, secretive and combative. His cool and logical composure replaced with a ticking time bomb.”

“You tell me he has been strong and that things are bad for him. I am trying hard to trust that when you say that you have got this under control that you are certain of that… But I hope that you can step into my shoes and take a look at how all of this really looks from my perspective and see how hard it has been for me to stay relatively silent about it while you have tried to reach him.”

"I know, Leo," Raphael looks at the ground and gives a steady nod. "Believe me, I get it. I'd be ready to beat it outta somebody if I was in your shoes. Ya been real patient with us, and I appreciate it. I am gonna work on it, getting him to talk. I don't see how we can face what's coming without you guys. It's gonna take each and every one of us. We gotta take this on as a team. That's one of my priorities for sure, getting him to see that!"

The red-clad ninja shakes his head with true regret. "But I can't be the one to tell ya what's going on. Not without his say-so. Leo, I swore an _oath_ \-- a serious oath, okay? Maybe I shouldn't have, but I did. It's done. I gave him my word." He looks up and searches the air, imploring. Surely Leo, of all people, can respect the sanctity of this.

Leonardo rolled his milky white eyes at the mention of, what he had interpreted as, this prophecy of doom. He had gathered enough to know that these two believed there was some calamity on the horizon but refused to say anything about it. The novelty of this information had quickly grown stale, leaving Leo merely annoyed at the cryptic half warnings.

He let out a heavy sigh, “Yes, I understand that. And I am trying to remain patient. I want to give you the room you need to help him, seeing as you are the only one of us that has seemed to make any headway. The way I see it, as long as I am stuck here, doing things your way seems the best option. If things are not resolved by the time I get home however, I hope that you will be willing to look at an alternate course of action, whatever that may be.”

"Don't fuckin' threaten me, Leo." Raphael comments wearily. "You wanna come home and lay down the law, that's fine with me. I'm gonna get us prepared as best we can, and get Don to a point where he can actually talk about it."

He's vaguely annoyed at Leo now, but that's fine. Vaguely annoyed is better than filled with panic and self-doubt.

"By the way, if you still got my knife in that footlocker, I'm so taking it back." It's not really his knife. He took it off a dead guy. Leo had issues with that. But it's a really sweet fucking knife.

“I did not _threaten_ you, Raphael.” Leo snaps, his patience officially wearing out with his brother. “What I said is that if in six months what you are doing is not working I would hope that you would try something else while I am there to help. I do not see a threat in there. I do not even see me saying that I will be ‘laying down the law’. I said that I would like to see YOU try something else. I am trying to work with you here. I'm trying to be lenient and understanding. I do not appreciate being accused of threats when I have done nothing but give you your way here.”

Leonardo threw his swords onto his back with a growl of frustration and added, “The knife is there. Not like there is much that I can do in the way of stopping you from taking it. Just know that I think you are better than that. A stolen weapon from a dead man is far beneath you. I will be disappointed. But I can't stop you. Was there anything else you need or are we done here?”

"Yeah, Leo... that's it, I guess," Raph grumbles, pushing away from the bricks he has been leaning on and heading for their front door. "I just had to check 'spoil Leo’s morning' and 'find new ways to be a disappointment' off today's to-do list."

The turtle tugs on the pipe that is really the a hidden lever, causing the front door to rumble open.

“Well at least you are efficient.” Leo grumbles unhappily, almost immediately regretting it. The shinobi sighed once again and turned to his brother, “I’m sorry. I did not mean that.”

“I am just stressed and it is unfair to take it out on you. You are just doing what you think is best.” Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly he added, “I am glad you called. I do want to know what is going on and I do not want my outburst to deter you from contacting me. I am sorry, Raph.”

"It's all cool, Leo," Raph grunts. "Takes a helluva lot more'n that to shut me up for good."

The turtle's massive shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "I'm still just doin' my part to help you sleep better at night. Anyway, wouldn't you rather get into it with me these days than Mike or Don?"

Leonardo was glad that the little spat between them deescalated before it turned into a huge rift like the fights that they once had as teens. If this conversation had happened even just a few years ago it was likely that the two of them would he at eachother’s throats by now, probably throwing punches.

He let out a soft chuckle and responded, “Yes, actually. You seem to be the most reasonable of my brothers lately.”

By now Raphael is inside, and the door has rumbled firmly shut behind him. "Yep... the world is officially topsy-turvy," he agrees.

He returns to the treasure room which is not too far from the front entrance and stands idle, overlooking the many items enshrined there. The empty eyes and painfully wide smile of his youngest brother's Cowabunga Carl head looks back at him. It creeps him out a little -- always has. "Is Mikey..." he begins, then shakes his head and amends, "I know you can't say much about him. But -- just tell me he ain't miserable! Tell me he's doin' better than he seemed to be when we tossed him out."

“Mikey is fine, Raph.” Leo reassures. Through the days that he had been with the council they had made it clear what was expected as far as their clan’s involvement in Mike’s trials, which was that none of them were to contact him at this point or interfere. They had never said that his trials must remain unknown to the rest of the clan.

“I wouldn't expect any more letters from him though. He is not on Earth anymore.” He cleared his throat a little then briskly added, “He is with Usagi. Charging Usagi with being Mikey’s yojimbo during his trials was approved by the council in the hopes that he would be able to learn some restraint and humility from a few teachings of bushido. He was only alone for a total of five minutes.”

Raph whirls around at the words 'he is not on Earth anymore', like he is ready to fight somebody over this. But of course there is no one there. He stares balefully through the open archway, processing the next words a bit slower thanks to the sudden flare of temper which had caused a roaring in his ears and briefly blocked out his reason. At first his mind had pictured Mikey alone on an alien world, a thought which was completely unacceptable. After all, Mikey hadn't needed very much time at all unsupervised on the planet D'Hoonib before he (and his greedy stomach) had managed to cause a fairly impressive bar fight.

The turtle's unbandaged hand flexes in and out of a fist and eventually he starts to nod in acceptance. "Okay, so... so he's in that other Japan," he confirms, perhaps needlessly. He tries to picture an old world creature like Usagi traveling to distant planets and having space adventures. It seems like a perfectly ridiculous idea, but he feels obliged to make sure. "Chilling with a bunch of animal people, and has a furry little you watching over him. I guess I can live with that. Though I'm gonna miss his letters. Guess I can stop checkin' the mail every day."

That is something he did while Leo was gone too. The only difference is that now he has mellowed and matured enough to openly admit it.

“Yes, he is in Usagi’s Japan, with him. Thus far there is nothing particularly interesting to report. They have simply been travelling from where I _dropped him off_ to the next large city and together they have figured out the clues that the Council left for Michelangelo which they are on their way to completing those tasks.” He says with a slight shake of his head, still somewhat perturbed that Michelangelo had gotten Usagi to decipher his scroll.

“I will be getting regular reports on their whereabouts and activities, as they are being tailed by the Neko clan of ninja from Usagi’s world. Anything important happens and I will let you know about it.”

"Sure, if you wanna," Raphael agrees uncertainly. "Not much I can do from here, though." He's just not sure what he is supposed to do with this information, other than be comforted by it. But it brings up another question. "You weren't checking in on me the whole time I was doing my trials, were ya?" Even having passed with exemplary marks, it is kind of a disconcerting thought.

Leonardo chuckled briefly, “No. I was not checking up on you, Raph. I received your letters and a brief report from the council about once a month. It was standard procedure.” in a tone that took on a slightly dark edge he added, “Mike's trials are not so simple…”

He let out a brief sigh, “But if he stays on course and does as he is supposed to we should be able to put all of this behind us soon and then I can try to convince Donatello to willingly undertake his trials.”

Raphael snorts in typical pessimistic fashion. "Good luck with that. Wasting yer time on a lost cause, if you ask me. He's pretty dead set against it. Just gonna alienate him further if you push it."

He doesn't really expect Leo to take his advice, though. All of the Hamatos are bull-headed and stubborn in their own way.

"And Usagi's really cool with helping us like this?" Raphael wonders, his good hand coming up to scratch at his chin thoughtfully. "We ain't seen him in ages. Like, I was kinda wondering if maybe we did something to offend the guy..."

Raph’s comments about Donatello’s lack of willingness to undertake the trials of the Tribunal did not come as a surprise to Leonardo. He had, for quite some time, been trying to convince his brilliant brother to set out but had been met with nothing but resistance along the way. He could only hope that he would be able to convince Don otherwise, unsure that the council would be willing to let any of the Hamato’s go without their trials, given the talent within their midst… and trouble their clan has caused.

His head jerked upwards at his younger brother’s words about Usagi and Leonardo was extraordinarily glad that he had not appeared before Raph, certain that his surprise and hurt were showing plainly on his face.

“Our clan has done nothing to offend him.” The turtle replied carefully, making sure that while vague he was telling no lies to his brother. And it was true. The clan had done nothing to cause offense. Leonardo himself on the other hand, that was an entirely different story. “Events of life has created the distance, though he has expressed that he still regards all of us very highly and misses the company. He was quite willing to undertake this task to help our family.”

Raphael nods, "Well, that's good. Tell him thanks for me, the next time you... well, I guess if he's guardin' Mike that could be a while. But it's mighty good of him. Hopefully Mike ain't already drivin' him nuts."

The red-masked turtle stretches and decides, "Look, I didn't wanna take up yer whole morning. I'm probably gonna fix myself some grub and... I dunno, kick the bag, since I can't really punch it. But I'm glad we gotta way to talk, even if it is with crummy magic, heh. Got any parting words of zen wisdom for me?"

“I am sure that Mikey has been on his best behavior… so I am also quite certain that he is driving Usagi ‘nuts’ by now.” Leonardo said playfully. In truth there was no one that he believed more capable of dealing with Mike’s eccentricity than Usagi. The ronin had proven to him to be infinitely patient with those that he claimed as friends. But he also took solace in the fact that Usagi was not likely to put up with toxic or damaging behavior.

The samurai whom he had taken as his lover all those years ago, while somewhat reckless and headstrong at times, had shown on countless occasions to have a moral compass that was unwavering. He was certain that Usagi’s good judgment would help steer Michelangelo down the right path.

With that comforting thought in mind he continued, “I do not mind giving some of my time to you, Raph. I am glad that you called. I guess all that I have left for now is that I do not want you to hesitate to call me back. I would like to get regular updates on Donatello.” He gave a shrug and added, “As for zen wisdom… I don't know… Be true to yourself. Never wear white after labor day… Something like that.”

"Perfect," Raph chuckles. "That last should be pretty easy. I don't got anything white."

Leonardo is crazy if he thinks Raph is going to tattle on Don for every little thing. Maybe it would be better if he had never brought up Don and opened that door at all -- but on the other hand, he does feel better for having discussed some of it.

"Look, I'll keep in touch," Raph offers truthfully, though he is careful not to promise more than that. "But this is supposed to be divide and conquer, man. I might hit you up for advice, but don't be tryin' to put all'a Don's crap on your shoulders. You're too far off, and ya got more'n enough to deal with between Mike and the Tribunal, yeah?" His good fist thumps his plastron, right below the gaudy golden pendant. "Them's my words of wisdom."

His brother's words are met with a soft sigh. He knew that it was the best that he was going to get from Raph, however displeased may by it. “The well-being of the clan is my top priority. Talking to me about the goings on there is not, in my opinion, putting ‘crap’ on my shoulders. So please, if there is anything you ever want to talk about, anything at all, please do not hesitate to talk to me for fear of putting more on my plate. I am here to help, I am not trying to be the bad guy where any of you are concerned. I would do anything for my family.”

He cleared his throat as if the gesture could dispel the vulnerability and emotion that he had just displayed before his brother. “Having said that, I hope that if things start looking up or start going South that you will let me know about it.”

"I hear ya, Leo!" Raph gives a long-suffering laugh. "Loud and clear. Any big shit goes down, I'll let you know. But I also do not wanna be feelin' like... I dunno, some kinda double agent every time I hang with Don! Like, I want him to be able to trust me. And I don't see how he can do that if I'm running to you to blab about every stupid thing. I'm sorry, but that's the best yer gonna get from me.”

The idea that he was truly seen as the ‘bad-guy’ by the majority of his siblings caused a heavy sadness within the blind shinobi. The fact that letting him know what was happening with Donatello would be seen as a betrayal stung him profoundly. But he supposed that it came with the territory of being the jonin of their clan. Sometimes it was more important to be his brother’s leader than it was to be their friend.

For now though, he could accept what Raph was willing to give as far as Donatello was concerned. If things went badly he would be made aware of it, but until that time it is not like there is a whole lot that he could do while stuck in the temple of the Tribunal anyway.

“The best I am going to get will have to do for now then, I suppose.” he replied a few moments later in a solemn, but accepting voice. “Just try to take care of him and of yourself. I want everyone in one piece when I get home.”

"What? Whaddya think I been--!" Raphael splutters, bringing his hands up to his face. The touch of the bandage against his skin reminds him of the injury and he drops it quickly, but the other rakes over the dome of his skull in frustration. "We're fucking benched, Leo! I been keeping us benched, okay? I been following your orders!"

His good hand makes a slashing gesture out the archway, towards the main living chamber. "I spent most of last night on the goddamn couch watching Dexter reruns while Donnie dicked around in his lab. Tell me, Leo, is that safe enough for you?" Even though he can't see Fearless, he takes a challenging step forward as he growls, "You want I should tone it down, maybe watch Powerpuff Girls instead next time? Hey, I know! We could plant a nanny cam in Don's lab! Then, when he finds it, when he feels real pissed off and invaded, it'll be fine! Because Don's so fucking smart, right? He'll eventually realize we did it all for his well-being! Doesn't that sound like a swell fucking plan?"

“That is not what I meant and you know it, Raphael.” Leo snaps in response to the outburst that he received from his brother. Over the years the shinobi had become accustomed to these flares of anger from his red-clad brother. It was not often that they were able to have a conversation without a small one making an appearance. It was honestly surprising that it had taken this long into the conversation for it to happen.

The blind shinobi pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and continued with a low growl, “I was just trying to tell you to take care. That I want you to be safe. That I care about you and I worry because I love you. I am sorry if you are frustrated by my decision to take you and Donatello out of commission while I am gone but with your injury and his decline of mental health I thought it for the best. I get that it sucks but I am just trying to be a good leader.”

"I never said that it was a bad call, Leo," Raph returns sharply. "I wouldn't still be backing you on this if I thought it was a bad call! Fer Christ's sake, I'm not pissed off about being benched! I'm pissed off because I don't see how I can do right by both of ya'. The whole main reason I called is because I am kinda struggling with when I should be a leader and when I should be a friend. But that is clearly something you still suck at. The next time you wanna show me how much you love and care? Maybe you should just fucking say that."

A weariness comes over his face then. Raph regrets having said that -- in fact, he is starting to regret having said any of it. Shit. Leo doesn't need this right now. "Look," he grimaces. "I'm done. Let's... not do this. We can't afford to do this, none of us can. We keep pushin' each other away. You just, you freaked me out a little, talkin' about wanting to come home to everybody bein' in one piece... I can't control that. Awful things could happen, no matter how hard try to stop it."

“I understand that it is a tough call to make, believe me, I do. And I may not have been the best at knowing when it was the most prudent to step in as a brother and friend rather than the leader of the clan, but I hope that you know that it is because at the end of the day the well being of each of you and the future of our clan rests on my shoulders.” At this point Leonardo had begun pacing the floor of his quaint room, his diatribe aimed at the polished wooden floor. He knew that Raph was trying his best to fulfil the role that he had left for him but he could not help but feel as though his own efforts for the clan were being attacked personally.

He had tried with everything he had to do right by his brothers and to do justice to the legacy that was left to him by their sensei. He had sacrificed the only thing in his life that had ever brought him true happiness all for the sake of his clan.

He turned on his heel to face the image of his younger brother and added with an exasperated breath, “I understand that your trust with Donatello is fragile and that it is important for that trust to not be broken. I am not asking you to violate that trust. I am simply asking you to come to me if you need help or if you feel as though the situation becomes beyond your control. If I did not trust you to make the right calls here I would not have left you in charge. I trust you, Raph. You are my second in command and I truly do believe that this is well within your grasp. But I also know that leadership can be a hard burden to bear and I want to be able to support you through it.”

Leonardo had not felt this worn down in a long time. He had managed for so long to keep it together, or at least he had managed to maintain the appearance of keeping it together, but as he spoke the exhaustion was clear in his voice, “The truth is that I do not know that I really know how to be a friend to any of you anymore. You are right that I have pushed all of you away by being the leader. But the leader is what I have to be. I want you all to be in one piece when I get home because it is my job to take care of you. I know that some things are beyond our control but if anything happens to any of you it is my failure.”

"No," Raph insists, narrowing his eyes. "Don is on me. If Don is not on me right now, then what's the fucking point of leaving me in charge? If it's no burden off you, might as well say we're equals, babysittin' each other until Mommynardo gets back!" The turtle parts his hands explosively. "How do you expect me to be responsible for shit, when you don't wanna share any of the _goddamn responsibility?_ What could you really even DO if shit went down here at the lair, and you're locked up in some temple way the fuck in Japan? What good's it do Mikey, or any of us, to be freaking out about failing us back home somehow?"

The injured turtle's unbandaged hand stabs at the air violently. "And another thing, don't you talk like we ain't friends no more, just 'cause I raise my voice with you sometimes." He makes a grumpy sound in the back of his throat and adds, quieter, "You oughta know me better'n that by now."  
  
He could understand what Raph was saying, and it was true that leaving Raph in charge back in New York did put some of the responsibility for the well being of Donatello onto his shoulders, but the fact remained that the fate of his clan was truly his responsibility. Raph may be immediately responsible for Donatello while he is gone from the lair, but it would still be his fault for not having prepared Raphael enough for the responsibility that he thrust upon him.

But there was no point in arguing it with his brother any longer. Raph had made up his mind about his stance on this and it simply was not worth the argument to try to change it.

The older of the two shook his head and replied in a weary voice, “I know that the reason why you yell is because you care.” He rolled his sightless, milky eyes and added, “And fine. Don is yours. He is your responsibility, until I get home it is on you. But do not call me Mommynardo. You know I hate that shit.”

"Fair 'nuff," Raphael smirks. "At least, 'til the next time you really earn it."

The half smile fades, his expression shifting to one of guarded concern. "But seriously, Leo... Don't take this the wrong way, but I kinda feel like any time you get wrapped up in all the ways you aren't living up to whatever you think yer supposed to be... when every other sentence comin' outta your mouth includes the word 'failure', like just a second ago? That should be a sign that it's time to check yourself. Like, meditate or something, do whatever it takes to clear that shit out of your head and focus on what you can do right now, yanno? Cuz you are never at the top of your game when you are obsessing about that shit. You are not as perceptive or as tactful or as badass as I know you can be when you are stuck in a cycle of tearing yourself down over shit that's over and done, or shit that ain't even happened yet. I'm not trying to... to attack you about this, I swear. I'm sayin' this as a brother and a friend."

Raphael is secretly glad he didn't mention anything about Don's confession that he has been suicidal. As much as it might be a comfort to share the burden of this terrible knowledge with someone, he's pretty sure that Leo couldn't handle that right now. Look how upset he got just from hearing that Don got sick during training and fell down the stairs!

The oldest of the Hamato clan was silent as his chunin spoke. The things that Raphael was saying were true, he was letting emotion cloud his mind, letting himself become too wrapped up in his failures and potential failures to be an effective leader or friend.

It was not as if this type of toxic mindset was new for him. Leonardo had struggled with these types of self destructive thoughts ever since he was a young shinobi and the responsibilities of leadership were placed upon his shoulders. He so often feared that he was going to fall short of his father’s expectations of him, that he would not be able to measure up to the title he had been given.  
  
For many years the only times that he was able to put these feelings behind him was when he would spend time with Usagi. The way that the ronin would look at him, like he was perfect, like he could do no wrong, it made all the moments in between bearable. His ronin always seemed to know the perfect thing to say to him to settle his mind, always knew exactly what it was that Leo needed to hear.

He could not count the number of times that he had wanted to run back to the samurai in the last few years.

He only hoped that after he was able to get all of this settled with Mikey and Donnie that he would be able to patch things up with Usagi. He felt in his heart that the rabbit would hear him out and that together they could work through the hurt feelings that they were both harbouring. Holding on to that hope was one of the only things that had kept him soldiering through these recent events.

Tears had begun to sting his eye mutinously at the thoughts of the ronin. Tears that he could not afford or indulge. He took a deep breath and formed the symbol for RIN with his hands whispering, “Kokoro…” with a slight shift in position ZEN is now displayed as he releases his breath and with it the anxiety and pain that he had succumbed to, “...no ishi.”

When he addressed Raphael it was with a voice devoid of emotion, a zen calmness that had become quite typical for the blind shinobi over the years. “Thank you for that insight, Raphael. I will make sure that I keep a clear mind. I am of no use to anyone while emotionally compromised.”

"God damnit," Raph swears. "Seriously? I tell you to stop stressing about a thing, and that is your solution? Wall off your whole goddamn heart? How does that even make sense right now? How the hell are you supposed to make sure these Tribunal assholes feel for Mike and make the right call when you can't feel shit yourself?"

He shakes his head severely, already reaching for the necklace as if to remove it as he mutters, "Fuck this. And fuck you, man. I can't talk to you like this. Make this necklace glow or something when your stupid spell has worn off, asshole. And you better gotta fucking apology ready."

He knew that his brother’s words should sting, but they rolled off of him leaving no more than an understanding that Raphael was angered by his decision. He replied in a voice that was silky smooth and completely unaffected by the seething anger of his younger brother.

“I can see that you are angry, Raphael. I have not ‘shut off my heart’, I am merely using the tools available to me in order to be able to look at the situation at hand subjectively. I was ‘stuck in a cycle of tearing myself down’ and I needed to take a step back from my emotions in order to be an effective leader. But I understand that you want this conversation to come to an end due to my current state, I will respect that decision.”

"The tools available... what bullshit!" Raph has the necklace off now but he is just standing there, holding it in front of his face and snarling at it. He never was good at backing off once his temper has ignited. "Geez, I got one brother who is off flunking his trials and about to get arrested by the magic ninja police, and the other two are fucking robots half the time! You two got more in common than you know, I swear to God!"

His fist clenches harder around the red silk ribbon as he goes on to say, "But what the hell do I know, Leo? Maybe you two got the right idea. Maybe I oughta start emptyin' fucking syringes into my arm so I can feel nothin' too. Cause that's about how much respect I got for this tool of yours, you fucking hypocrite."

He slams the necklace onto the shelf with enough force to make the boards rattle, but it's a sturdy hunk of gold and none the worse for wear.

The red-masked turtle stomps away in a classic huff, but that will be left to Leo’s imagination. As soon as he is no longer in direct contact with the ribbon, Raphael disappears from sight.

Leonardo did not bother to respond to Raphael’s tirade. It would not be long before his brother had calmed down enough for them to once again calmly speak about the issues that they were facing. He did not even flinch when Raph verbally exploded and disappeared from sight, having obviously severed their connection.

The shinobi sat down on the soft padding that served as his bed and folded his legs into a graceful lotus position. While his mind was still he was able to look at the situation without his emotions skewing the way that he was perceiving the situation at hand. Perhaps there was some truth to what Raphael was saying though. He had begun to rely on the suppression of emotion by magic in order to cope with his situation. There was much about that situation which should be remedied.

If he had to suppress his emotions that meant that he was truly not in control of himself. He merely had a temporary illusion of control. If he was going to be the leader that his clan deserved he would have to start making changes in regards to his methods.

Perhaps it was for the best that Raphael was willing to call him out on this.

The jonin took a deep breath, making a mental note that when his spell wore off that he would need to make contacting Raph a priority, even though it would mean swallowing his pride.

He tucked the heavy metal amulet back into the inner pocket of his trench coat before laying back on the bed, closing his eyes and letting himself enjoy the sensation of utter stillness in his mind, this one last time.

 

"What a great fucking plan that was!" The turtle is still muttering under his breath, darkly sarcastic as he tromps towards the stairs. "Go to Leo for a heart to heart, you'll feel so much better!" Now his voice takes on an unfairly high pitch to mock his brother, "I can see that you are angry, Raphael. I have not shut off my heart, merely using the tools available."

His voice drops back to its natural pitch as he goes on to accuse, "You lied to my face! I know 'kokoro no ishi' means 'heart of stone', you fucking dick. I ain't _that_ bad at Japanese."

He's seething about it all the way back to his room. Raphael almost misses the piece of paper, but he opens the door with such unnecessary force that it causes the computer paper Don taped there earlier this afternoon to flutter. He's been keenly trained to hone in on any unexpected movement in his peripheral vision, and jerks back a step to look at what has been left there for him.

Don is trying to apologize for this morning. His whole explosive conversation with Leo is forgotten as he looks it over. He's glad to have this, though he's still not convinced Don was more to blame than himself. _Man, he has added even MORE sections to this thing,_ he observed with vague amusement. _This fricken thing gets changes and gets more complicated every time we fight._

Then again, Raph supposes that makes sense. Don is a complicated guy.

What he reads on the page mostly fills him with fresh hope and new understanding. Right until he gets to something marked off near the bottom.

 _Don't tell Leo_.

Raphael's stomach turns over. He glances up quickly to look towards Donatello's room, thinking: _Fuuuuuck_.  
  
  


 


	12. Aikawa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the pair of yojimbo set out on their quest to fulfill Michelangelo’s Trials they find themselves distracted from their journey by the lavish Aikawa Matsuri.

The ferry ride to Sado island was incredible. The music of the minstrels, the lights of the lanterns across the water and the excited chatter of the assortment of villagers and tourists were enough to make even the eldest and most stoic among them as gleeful as the smallest child on board.

But it was simply nothing compared to the sights and sounds that met them as they finally made dock. The entire port city was lavishly decorated festivities were in full swing as they stepped off of their boat. So many things were there to see that it was difficult, if not impossible to take it all in. As Usagi stepped into the throng of festival goers he quickly reached behind him to grab hold of Michelangelo’s hand, lest he lose the shinobi in the crowd.

Lanterns of red and white hung from every door and archway, prayer flags of every color were strung above their heads as far down the road as they could see. Street performers were in abundance and music filled the air. Children and adults alike ran to and fro to watch entertainments and to purchase sweets from the merchants who had unloaded their wares onto the sides of the road, everyone trying to experience as much of the matsuri as they could before the much anticipated parade of idols.

It was not until they made it to the main street that they were not shoulder to shoulder with others. When he was certain that he would be able to keep track of his companion the ronin let go of the turtle’s hand, turning to him and gesturing around him. In a far happier voice than he had managed to use the majority of the time that he had been Mikey’s guide he asked, “What do you think, my friend? Where should we venture to first?”

Mike had been stumbling in Usagi’s wake, craning his neck this way and that, trying to take it all in. There is just so much to see and hear and smell. All the color and activity is making his overstimulated head spin just a little, but complaint is far from Michelangelo’s mind. It is all so entertaining and new. There are _so many_ people. Crowds are still very much a novelty. Even though his home town of New York City is a very crowded place, the Hamato family has only ever seen such gatherings as this from the shadowy fringes, always observing rather than participating. It is a very different experience to spy on a crowd than to be in the thick of one!

The young shinobi looks startled at offer. “Me? Uh. Well, I really wanna see the parade thing? Like, whenever that’s happening. And I need to buy a lantern at some point. But probably not yet, right? Because then I’d have to carry it around and it might get busted. So instead -- um, for now -- I kinda wanna… argh, so many things! All the things, Usagi-san!”

Michelangelo’s eyes suddenly widen at something he spots over his companion’s shoulder. “Whoa, I think there is some kind of dance contest going on over there! Or maybe they’re just drunk? No, they’re way too coordinated, that is definitely dancing. You guys have some awkwardly slow dance moves, I gotta say... Ohhh, but check out that girl! She is workin’ it!” He’s focused in a completely different direction now. “Lookit, she is doing a cool thing with ribbons! We could go watch, or -- oh! Or we could go check out those shiny boxes and weird little carved things this other lady over here is selling!” He only makes it a few steps in the direction of that stall before some other piece of merchandise catches his eye. He snatches it up and marvels, “Holy shit! Is this dude selling one-hitters? What the hell is this?”

The samurai watched with an entertained smile, one hand on his hip as his companion spun about, trying to decide, without much success, what they should experience first in the festival. It was actually rather fun to have a companion by his side who was so outwardly excited by the frivolities that his world could offer, frivolities that he had spent far too long experiencing on his own.

The long eared ronin tried to keep up with Michelangelo’s train of thought, literally spinning on the spot to take in the things which Michelangelo had pointed out to him. As his eyes focused on the group of dancers off in the distance something just a little further off caught his attention, something that he hoped that Mikey would enjoy. For the moment, however, he turned back to his companion and looked at the item in his hand.

Usagi gave a slight shrug at the question and replied, “I haven’t the slightest idea what a ‘one-hitter’ is, Mikey-san. But I can tell you that the item in your hand is a pipe meant for indulging in opium. It has never been a habit of mine, but it is quite popular, especially among the higher classes.”

“Ohh… nope!” Mike sets the pipe down rather quickly and flashes the vendor a sheepish, broad-toothed grin. “None for me, thanks! Not my style. Too hardcore. That stuff is made out of heroin! Or is it the other way around? Donnie would know…”

The vendor who is selling the pipe folds his arms, looking at Michelangelo with non-comprehension and dwindling patience. The turtle panics briefly, having no idea how to convey any of that in Japanese. “I mean, uh… zenzen heiki desu! **(I'm fine)** ” he squeaks, backing away from the stall with a polite bow.

Mike puts distance between himself and the opium pipe, which has lost all appeal and even unsettled him a little. Hard drugs don't _belong_ in this idyllic setting of Usagi’s world. But then, Mike also thought he had left behind gangs and organized crime, and if he is to believe some of the exciting tales Usagi has been coaxed to tell of his adventures, both of these exist here. He supposes it is a good thing that he is becoming less naive.

Michelangelo strides into the center of a crossroad, determined to find better wonders. He sizes up each each potential route.

It’s no good. It's a kaleidoscope, a fascinating cacophony of shiny things he absolutely wants to investigate. He has noticed knots of people here and there, and realizes that at the heart of each of these are beguiling street performers, or intriguing trinkets being sold on tatami mats, or strange music being lulled from instruments he has never seen before. He can feel the collective focus and excitement snapping like flags in the air around him.

Finally he just stops and looks at the long-eared ronin with his lower lip caught between his teeth for a moment before he blurts, “Are you sure you want me to be the one guiding us? Cuz I'm gonna have us running back and forth, like ping-ping-ping…” He makes a gesture with his hand, like a flitting butterfly going from flower to flower. “And there won't be time left to see nothin’.”

The turtle shrugs a little. At least he is aware of his own shortcomings.

Usagi gave a soft smile as Michelangelo backed away from the opium pipe, quite glad that it was not something that he was going to have to try to talk the shinobi out of in any way. The ronin gave a thoughtful ‘hm’ while scratching his chin and looking about him at the entertainments available to them, once again focusing on the performance a little further down the road.

“Actually,” he commented while gesturing down the road, “There is someone that I want you to meet. Though it is quite a good thing that you are no longer carrying a purse when you do.” He let the comment hang in the air, giving no further explanation as he lead the way. Soon the pair had joined a throng of townsfolk who had gathered in a circle around one particular performer.

The young fox danced deftly, fans moving in well practiced and breathtaking motions, her green silk kimono shifting gracefully in the wind. As she moved a koma spinning top whizzed along the edge of her fan, it’s balance never wavering. The crowd was absolutely enthralled with the tale she wove with the progression of the toy.

“... And then our tragic hero rides his steed along the dragon’s spine!” She called out as her wrists flicked this way and that, aiding the top’s journey along the bending edge, finally tossing it into the air and letting it plummet to the ground, “... Until he plunges into the dark and lonely abyss, never to be heard from again.”

The onlookers applauded and cheered, tossing coins onto the ground at her feet, commenting on the tragic tale as she gave a bow and added, “Please show your appreciation if you enjoyed the story.”

As she picked up a few of the coins Usagi held up a hand and called out, “Ho! Kitsune!”

The fox’s head snapped upwards as she rushed toward the pair, “Usagi! Leonardo! How good to see you!” She had wrapped the rabbit in a firm hug before throwing her arms around the turtle, her keen eyes flashing up at him as she pulled away and she gave a thoughtful and almost disappointed noise as she folded her arms once again.

Usagi rolled his eyes at her and gave a soft chuckle, “He is not carrying any coin, Kitsune. And this is not Leonardo, it is his younger brother, Michelangelo.” The fox flashed a wide and sheepish smile at the turtle before adding with a chuckle of her own, “Well, you cannot blame me for trying. A girl -”

“ _Does what she can to get by_?” Usagi offered playfully.

“Indeed.” Kitsune replied with a wink. Turning her attention back to the shinobi she gave a short bow and addressed him, “Hajimemashite **(It is nice to meet you)** , Michelangelo-san. It is a pleasure.”

“Hai,” Michelangelo replies as best he can in her tongue, trying to make up for any linguistic errors with gallantry and no-fucks-given confidence. “ _It is a pleasure to meet you, and to be felt by you for a purse. My brother is fooled by this? But if I have a purse, I already would give it to the fox after a very good dance of fan and toy._ ” He bows deeply and pops up from it with a grin.

Mike had been spell-bound, of course, all through her performance. He has already planned for her to appear as a full page colored sketch on the pages of his journal so that he can always remember the sight of her vivid red fur against lavish green silk and her deftly flashing hands. Even after the performance is done she continues to exude drama, though her spell upon him is mostly broken when she mistakes him for Leo.

He glances at Usagi and wonders, “How do I ask if she is ambidextrous like me?”

Usagi watched the whole exchange between his two friends with an amused grin. He had no more than opened his mouth to address the turtle's question when Kitsune laughed gayly, causing him to pause in his efforts.

When the fox spoke it was with an air of confidence and pride in her work. She placed both of her paws on her slender hips and beamed up at the young shinobi with a sharp toothed grin. “You bet that he was fooled by it! Nearly every time I saw him for years. Though I think that after awhile he really just expected it and did not bother trying to prevent the inevitable!”

She turned to Usagi and said with a pleasant smile in a mock whisper which was certainly loud enough for the young Hamato to hear every word, "He is certainly a charmer, Usagi-san. You should bring him around far more often."

The ronin nodded lightly and responded with a pleasant laugh, "He certainly is quite charming." He then turned to the shinobi and said, "She is most definitely ambidextrous. Most skilled fighters here are. You should assume that everyone you come across is ambidextrous, lest they take you by surprise."

“No, I meant, like -- that's still really good advice. But was she born that way?” Mike presses eagerly. “I haven't met someone else who’s like me and isn't right or left handed naturally, you know? Don says it's really rare. But the way she works those fans... her hand-eye coordination is off the hook! Which - err, means really good!”

“I gotta admit, I kinda love the idea of Leo being all twitterpated by this one,” the turtle admits as he returns his attention to the wily performer. He reverts to his awkward Japanese, wondering, “Kitsune-san comes from Sado Island, or travels as Usagi-san does?”

The fox had smiled softly and taken a step closer to the young shinobi, answering him in a soft voice, “I travel, much as our ronin friend does. Between you and I, I do not stay welcome in one place for very long so it is best that I keep moving.” In a far more lighthearted voice she added, “And there is no need for formality, you can just call me ‘Kitsune’.” She beamed happily at the turtle even as Usagi turned to her and posed the question of whether or not she had been born ambidextrous or if it was an acquired skill.

She grinned even wider and answered to the ninja, whom she knew the question had come from rather than to Usagi, “It was self taught. My left paw used to be practically worthless, but in my trade that could cause a deadly mistake. So I have practiced diligently for years, now it is as if it were a natural born skill for me.”

While the fox was happily chatting with Michelangelo Usagi took a few moments to look around at the other activities of the festival, curious about what they should venture off to do next. His head was still lightly swimming and he felt far warmer than he should, given that he was still damp, but he could not even be bothered to chastise himself for letting himself get inebriated tonight. He was having far too good of a time and it felt far too nice to not be worrying about his past for an evening. For the first time in longer than he could remember he was _happy_ , so much so that Michelangelo’s quip about Leonardo being twitterpated by Kitsune rolled off of him much as water over stone.

The hare was turning in place, content to take in the sights and feel the gentle wind on his whiskers when saw a little stand a few yards away selling bebi kasutera **(tiny fried sponge cakes on a stick)**. The ronin happily called over his shoulder to his companion, completely unawares if the others had even stopped talking, not really caring if his actions were seen as slightly disrespectful.

“Ho! Mikey! More fried stuff on a stick. Do you want a dessert? These are really tasty. My treat.” The last was said with a hearty chuckle as he was now in charge of both of their coin.

“Tsuneni! **(always)** ” Mike beams, giving the ronin a double thumbs-up “I am always down for fried things on sticks. And fried _desserts_ on a stick? Holy shit, that has got to be at least twice as rad. Like, mathematically, right? But radness is like windchill factor, so it actually _feels_ four or five times as rad...”

Abruptly Michelangelo realizes that he has turned away from Kitsune and possibly made her feel confused and excluded by reverting to English. He throws a friendly arm around her as he calls in his clumsy Japanese, “Usagi! A dessert for my new friend also! And maybe she will join us at Aikawa festival and speak many secret stories she learns from a long time knowing Usagi-san!”

Kitsune had taken the exchange between her two warrior friends in stride, not minding the loud conversation between them as it gave her a few moments to scan the crowd around them and deftly slip the purse off of the belt of a passerby without appearing to have even moved. It would seem that this was going to turn out to be quite the lucrative evening.

When Michelangelo turned to her and offered to buy her a dessert and asked for a juicy story about the wandering hare, the fox gave a girlish giggle, bringing one paw up to her mouth as if embarrassed, though her tone clearly expressed anything but. “I may have a tale I can tell. If the charming lads buy me a drink I may even make it a good one.”

Usagi rolled his eyes at the fox but brightly nodded his head and turned in the direction of the stand, hooking his arms into each of his companion’s as he lead the way, making sure to put Kitsune on the side opposite his coin purse.

In no time at all the trio had acquired their bebi kasutera and found a free spot outside of an restaurant where they were able to get a fresh bottle of sake, the little ceramic vase was brightly decorated in white and red as if fashioned specifically for the Aikawa Matsuri. As they settled down into their little niche under a vibrant cherry blossom tree Kitsune gladly took control of the bottle, giving her companions much larger doses than she gave herself, secretly enjoying the incredibly rare sight of the ronin partaking in any kind of… well… fun.

The fox leaned back against the trunk of the tree and eyed Usagi happily as she decided on the story that she would regale the kame tourist with in exchange for the food and drink. “Ah!” she exclaimed excitedly and flashed the ronin a wry grin, “There was a time about four years ago that I found myself in Shimonoseki at the same time as our dear ronin.”

Usagi immediately cleared his throat, knowing exactly the story that his friend was about to tell, but made no move to stop her, rather, he simply drained his cup as she continued on, “I had been travelling with Gennosuke for a time and he had made his way down there to hunt a bounty with a hefty price on his head, but we were quite tired when we reached the town and it was already fairly late in the evening so we stopped at a quaint little inn to freshen up and who should we find but Usagi Miyamoto sitting with your brother in a corner, eating a bowl of noodles with that adorable scowl on his face?”

“Gen and I naturally invite ourselves to sit at his table but then it became perfectly clear why he was in such a foul mood. As we sit there a girl walks by, giving the ronin the big doe eyes each time she passes and quickly moves away giggling every time he happens to glance her way.”

With a devious chuckle she adds, “Well, it was far too wonderful an opportunity to pass up. So I buy a jar of sake and make my way over to this girl while the boys are talking and I tell her that the drink was really from Usagi, who was just far too shy to bring it over himself. It only takes this girl about five minutes to completely drain the little jug and she becomes incredibly inebriated and her inhibitions seem to vanish. Soon she, too, invited herself to join us at Usagi-san’s table.”

“This poor girl was so taken with him and believed him to be interested, but incredibly bashful. She clung to his arm and rested her head on his shoulder as he tried to, in his bewildered state, respectfully let her down as Gen, Leonardo-san and I sniggered and relentlessly commented on how they were such a handsome couple and that we were so glad that Usagi had finally found a nice girl.”

The fox chuckles once again as she refills their glasses and continues on, “Then, Usagi, a charmer to the very last, takes this girl by the shoulders and gently pushes her away and tells her that she better run along because it was far past her bedtime. She was so offended that she grabbed his bowl of noodles and emptied it over his head as she cursed at him for ‘leading her on’. It was beautiful.”

Michelangelo wants so badly to be regaled by this story. But there is a small stumbling block in his enjoyment right away with the early inclusion of Leonardo.

Seriously, this brother will not stop popping into Mike’s head at inopportune moments even _without_ the help of random old friends who appear to share stories of Usagi and Leo, being easy-breezy, two best pals just palling around the countryside together. The worst part is that this picture she paints of a happy, laid-back Leo is impossible to reconcile with the brother he has been stuck knowing for fucking _years_. All he needs to do is think his brother’s name lately and his mind’s eye fills with up close and personal memories of Leonardo the Jonin, grim and righteous, commanding instead of conversing… or Mommynardo the meddler, his face etched with the worry you made him feel, the weariness and the eternal disappointment … or Master Yokai, mystic sensei, whom Mike finds genuinely creepy. This last one is probably the _least_ relatable of his brother’s many changing faces.

He tries not to think about this. He tries to smile where he is supposed to smile, and even laughs appropriately. Mike does all this even as he is fixating on this barely recognizable new face which is being denied, not just to him, but to the whole Hamato family for some reason!

Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite register that all of this took place four years ago. The turtle is too busy trying to imagine a Leonardo who hangs out in bars. Not even as part of some mission or stake out, but just for the _fun_ of it. Laughing, drinking sake, making friends. Trying to be somebody’s _wingman_ , for Christ’s sake! It does _not_ compute. The idea that such a carefree version of his brother may still exist feels like an unexpected punch to the bridge. But Leo is not _allowed_ to intrude upon his good mood right now. So Mike tries -- he really does try -- not to think about any of it. He keeps his eye contact attentive and drains the sake in front of him much too quickly.

As Kitsune’s tale comes to its natural end, he is actively working to fix his attention on the actual story -- the _point_ of the story. Which is obviously how funny it is that Usagi got fed up with being the butt of everyone’s joke! So in his growing discomfort and frustration, he wound up being rude to this poor mistaken straight girl. Cue laugh track. _Well, **of course** she made a pass at Usagi_ , he thinks. _The guy is totally hot_!

Okay, so the image of Usagi wearing a bowl of noodles is a pretty funny mental picture. It definitely warrants another appreciative chuckle, this one more genuine than the first.

Kitsune, at least, probably doesn’t know Mike well enough to recognize the employment of his (honestly decent) acting abilities. He doesn’t want to burden this bright and shiny new friend with any of his stupid issues with Leo, who wasn’t even remotely the point, and so it is totally not her fault that he probably would have preferred a different story.

“Arigato,” he tells her, speaking slowly and a bit more carefully than usual as his eyes shift from Kitsune to his ronin friend. “The Usagi I see... has quick anger, but also has great thoughtfulness for other people. I already know he regrets it, if he was not the ideal…” He wants to say ‘gentleman’, but doesn’t know the word for it. After a brief hesitation, he finally settles on, “If he was not polite. So I forgive him, even if I like this... vision of my friend.” His eyes do twinkle now, the shadows chased away as he looks at Usagi. “Dripping with broth, soba hanging on his ears.”

Usagi had listened to the tale somewhat stoically, enjoying the food and drink far more than the recollection of that time so long ago. He and Leonardo had been at the height of happiness in their relationship at the time and seemed to have the world at their feet, the rest of their lives ahead of them, lives that, at the time, he thought would be lived together. It was not much longer after that summer that things really seemed to change for the worse and Leonardo began distancing himself from Usagi. The memory of his lover laughing merrily and thoroughly enjoying himself, would have normally been crushing for him - but the ronin instead focused on the warmth of sake in his throat as he drained another glass.

As Kitsune came to the end of her tale and Michelangelo spoke in his best attempt at graceful Japanese the hare looked up at his companion with a soft grin, understanding the humorous picture that was painted of him completely covered in soup. That was when he noticed that something was amiss. He had travelled with the young shinobi for long enough now to know when he was putting up a front and now was certainly one of those times.

The terrapin warrior’s smile was tense, the shine of his eyes was not quite the vibrancy that glistened in them when he was truly amused. And more telling than anything about the turtle’s body language was the fact that the dessert treat that Usagi had bought for him was still in his hands - completely untouched.

It did not take a genius to figure out what it was that had upset Michelangelo. Afterall, the two of them shared a common source of hurt feelings at the moment, and while he was able to drown out the feelings that the mention of Leonardo may have caused him, it was obvious that Michelangelo was not so lucky on this night.

Usagi cleared his throat, placed a friendly hand on Kitsune’s shoulder and laughed heartily - albeit a bit forced. “Kitsune, my friend, I think that is more than enough embarrassment for me for one evening.” He then gave the young shinobi a look that clearly said that he knew something was wrong and added, “Anyway, Michelangelo-san and I still need to get our lanterns if we intend to join the festivities tonight.”

The fox gave a wide smile, wrapping her arms around Usagi’s shoulders briefly before turning and giving Michelangelo a similar embrace. “I too have business to attend to at the festival this evening, so I will leave you to yours. Thank you both for the bebi kasutera and the wine. Hopefully we will bump into each other again before the night is through.”

When the wily thief had sauntered off Usagi quickly checked his belt, and to his amazement, his purse was still there. He then turned to his friend and poured the last bit of sake left in the jar into Mikey’s cup and gave him a soft and somewhat sad smile, “Don’t let him ruin this too, Mikey-kun.”

Mike had been watching Kitsune go. Now he turns to Usagi with a flash of surprise at his perceptive comment, but that quickly morphs into steely determination. A single grim nod expresses his agreement, along with a quiet mutter, “Yeah… screw that.” He drains what has just been put into his cup and winds up staring at the inside of the little clay vessel for a moment. Eventually he adds in an even lower voice, speaking mostly to himself, “He’s already ruined too much of what shoulda’ been mine.”

Even though there is no one left to perform for, Mike takes a deep breath and rallies himself with a louder burst of freshly summoned optimism. “Anyway, this festival only just got started! And I still gotta try the baby custard stuff!” He twirls the dessert-on-a-stick in front of his face to entice himself, three little brown lumps strung in a row, kabob style. This isn’t quite the same as that mystery stuff from earlier. There is no thick layer of fried batter to hide the fact that this is some kind of smooth cake or donut-like substance! “It sure smells good,” he decides after bringing it even closer and inhaling. The turtle is really just teasing himself with it at this point, savoring his own anticipation.

But he’s got all-American taste buds. With expectations already planted in his brain about what ‘some cake or donut thing’ ought to taste like, the thing Mike actually bites into after popping one into his mouth is far less sugary-sweet than what he’d been expecting. He blinks down at in surprise, but keeps chewing, and after a moment starts nodding slowly with a thoughtful purse to his lips. Ultimately he enjoys the new experience, even if he winds up immediately pointing out, “So, that was... _not_ cake. I dunno why I was expecting cake! But, like, dude. I _know_ cake, and that was something else. That was a lot more egg than I would have used, right? And I’m pretty sure there was no butter in that, at all. Which is, uh... pretty criminal in terms of cake. If this were cake! Which it isn’t. But in terms of whatever that was, it was awesome.” He grins and pops another of the “baby custara” or whatever into his mouth to prove it.

Okay, so perhaps the word “cake” had briefly spoiled him with a flood of nostalgia for sugar. Not honey, bean pastes or flower pollen or whatever the fuck these people try to use, but sugar. MEGA sugar! Corn syrup, glucose, fructose, and all the bad Halloween candy chemical sugars no one but Don can even _pronounce_... For just a moment, he wanted his mouth to be in total sugar overload. Just for a moment.

But the truth is, it’s still kinda novel just having regular access to food at all. At this point, food has become ‘awesome’ just by being some flavor other than plain white rice. Hell, even the rice can seem delicious after a hard day of walking. He ate some kind of pickle the other day, during the lunch break with the fishmonger couple? It was _out of this world_ for some reason. Mind blowing amounts of flavor, not to mention way more interesting than how pickles taste back home. His standards are rapidly changing. He’s not sure it’s a bad thing.

“I’m really not complaining, I promise!” Mike looks back at the ronin and swears, belatedly realizing that his words could be construed as ungrateful. He tucks the empty sake cup under one arm in order to pull the third treat off the stick. “I’m just, uh.” The not-cake breaks apart between his suddenly less agile fingers and he laughs, realizing, “Drunk, I guess. But, we’re good! It’s good, everything’s good.”

The disguised shinobi abruptly dives to retrieve his fallen treat from where it fell at the base of the tree, calling, “Ahh! Five-second rule!”

It was incredibly relieving to see that the shinobi so easily understood his concerns and was so willing to put aside those hurt feelings to simply have an evening of lighthearted fun and enjoy some of the time he had on Seventh Earth with Usagi before they had to once again dive into the arduous tasks of completing Michelangelo’s Tribunal Tests. He felt a tug of curiosity at the comment that Michelangelo had made and wondered deeply what else it was that Leo had ruined for the youngest of the Hamatos, but having just pulled Mikey out of a downward slump it seemed as though it was a rather inopportune time to breach the subject. He resigned himself to investigate the manner later, letting it slide for the time being.

Usagi leaned back against the tree, chewing absently at the stick his bebi kasutera had come on, content to relax for a few more moments and enjoy the night air while Michelangelo savored his own ‘fried stuff on a stick’, now that the ninja was once again on board with having a good time. While he was a little distracted, mostly due to the swimming sensation in his head and the warmth in this chest, the ronin was still present of mind enough to chuckle as Mike amused him with his display of grabbing the last piece of dough which had fallen into the grass at their feet.

The older warrior passed zero judgement on the turtle for having still eaten the food after it fell on the ground, being little more than a medicant wanderer himself he had certainly done the same thing on more than one occasion, truly a little bit of dirt was not worth wasting a good meal.

As it looked like Mikey was wrapping up the white hare sat up and gestured down the road, “It looks as if there are a few merchants just down that way. We could definitely see what they have in the way of lanterns. There are a few others on the way down to the beach as well.” He hopped up from the spot he was sitting, only to discover that he was off kilter from the spirits he had consumed. Usagi chuckled jovially as he held his arms out wide for a moment to regain his center of balance before holding a hand out to the young shinobi, “Shall we?”

Mike looks up from where he had rocked backwards with his shell resting against the tree. The ronin's red eyes are merry, his white fur dappled and picking up hues of pink and gold from colored lanterns hanging in the branches overhead, one paw held out in steady invitation. In spite of Kitsune’s tale he cannot picture Usagi as anything other than a perfect gentleman. Even his recent memory of an enraged rabbit beating the hell out of a tree is far, far away in that moment.

Michelangelo’s cheeks spread with a close-mouthed grin. “Yeff,” he agrees with his mouth still stuffed with _bebi kasutera_. He clasps the long-eared ronin’s paw, allowing his assistance in getting the weight of his shell off the tree.

For once, he's not worried about invading his friend's thoughts or emotions. His rogue mystic skills don't seem to work very well through the fog of intoxication. That's actually one of the reasons he has been such a pothead these last few years. It feels so good to relax, to be able to touch somebody and not _worry_ about it.

Once fully upright again, Mike finds he is actually somewhat reluctant to let go of Usagi's hand. But he does, with a cautious thought that he had better not start actively flirting. He doesn't want to spoil the night with a rejection, or make things awkward between them. He reminds himself that Usagi was recently hurt by someone he cares about, someone he does not seem to have stopped loving yet, and that is what finally gets him to let go.

“Lead the way!” he encourages with a laugh that sounds just a bit bashful.

The ronin smiled widely at the taller warrior by his side as Michelangelo laughed happily and told him to usher them forward, knowing nothing of the dilemma which he had thrust upon the young shinobi with the simple act of grasping his hand. Rather, the hare assumed that Mikey was just as at ease on this night as he was. And so he set off, little more than a pace ahead of his companion.

As he walked along the road with a slight spring in his step the samurai would duck his head between passersby or stand for a few moments time on the tips of his toes in order to get a look at what the vendors on the streets were selling to make sure they did not pass up any chances to peruse the selection of lanterns available to them.

Though his efforts were rather unnecessary, when they came across the stall he was looking for the lavish decorations made it quite obvious that he had found the correct one. He laughed a bit at himself as he gestured for Mikey to step ahead of him to get a look, after all, he had participated in this festival before, this was truly for Mikey’s benefit.

“Go ahead and pick whichever you would like, Mikey-kun,” the samurai commented casually. “You have worked very hard to earn your coin, you might as well treat yourself. I haven’t the vaguest idea when the next time that fortune smiles upon us such as this again will be.” While he encouraged his companion to feel free to indulge a bit, the samurai picked out the smallest and most unassuming lantern that he could find: simple, white and able to fit in the palm of his paw.

Michelangelo had been eyeing all the vendors as well, but not with any specific goal in mind. He picks up random shiny objects curiously only to set them down again and hurry after Usagi. He doesn't want to get separated in the crowd of festival goers. That, and he’d rather not get into any trouble. It seems less likely that might happen if the ronin is near. Already Mike has come to feel safe around Usagi, and that sense of security is also something that was in short supply during the lonely months he spent homeless and traveling his world.

When they come to the lantern seller, Mikey lights up at the sight of the bright and cheerful decor. He races forward to touch and admire the available lanterns, comparing them carefully. Already he is taking mental notes on the construction, even though it will all surely leak out of his head soon unless he remembers to write his thoughts down. But Mike’s state of mind is too carefree to even think of this -- and anyway, his journals and writing supplies are all stowed in his traveling pack back at the inn.

Eventually he narrowed it down to a pair of different but equally lovely lanterns -- one which is painted with a festive pattern, and another which has plain paper panels but has been constructed with a more interesting, rounded architecture. He whirls back to Usagi with the notion of getting his opinion and winds up peering at the samurai’s selection with vague disappointment. That lantern is so _boring_. And it makes him wonder if the polite thing to do here would be to also choose a modest one for himself. One thing Mike has noticed about Japanese manners is that it involves a lot of dancing around what one really means for the sake of civility.

“You know…” Mike considers, and abruptly puts back both top choices in favor of scanning the table holding cheaper lanterns. He rambles at Usagi over one shoulder as he combs through the merchandise, taking special care not to damage anything. “I bet a smaller lantern would float higher and faster, yeah? Cuz it would weigh less, and it wouldn't take so much time to fill the chamber with hot air.” He imagines that Don would have been proud of him for coming up with that last bit. “Plus, there was a guy back there? He was selling some kinda art supplies in little boxes. Like the paint comes out of a stone or something? Dude had some tiny cheap ones that just came with one brush…”

Ah-ha! Mikey has spotted a smaller version of the round-paneled lantern that had caught his eye earlier. It's near the back of the table, and he stretches over the others to reach it, not remembering to watch his trailing kimono sleeves. _Whups_ … He has to spend a moment righting the couple of lanterns he knocked over. Nothing hit the ground or was damaged, as far as he can tell, but now the merchant running the stall is paying him wary attention.

The turtle turns back to Usagi and holds his chosen lantern aloft. He picks up his earlier train of thought as if there had been no interruption. “So I was thinking! Maybe if I didn't spend so much on the lantern, I could afford one of those little boxes with a red colored stone. We could camp out at a good spot to watch that idol parade and paint our lanterns while we wait for it to start! And then afterwards I would have a thingie for practicing my calligraphy -- which, uh, pretty sure we’ve established that I kinda suck.”

Usagi raised a brow as Michelangelo had come down to the end of the table he was looking at and began to pick through the smaller and less fantastic lanterns. The ronin felt a small twinge of guilt, feeling for a moment that he may have deterred Michelangelo from getting what he truly wanted due to his own modest selection. However, before he was able to begin voicing his concerns the shinobi had piped up with his defense of the smaller lantern and proposition of paints.

The guilt faded away almost instantly and was replaced with a wide grin. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Mikey-kun!” he replied enthusiastically as he turned back to the table to pay for their lanterns. By the time that the pair also had their paints in hand their purse was far lighter than it had been when the evening began, an occurrence that normally would have caused the typically frugal ronin a fair amount of distress but in his current state he found that he really could not care less about it. A few ryo seemed so small a sacrifice for the evening he was having.

It was harder than he would have enjoyed finding a good place to settle in to watch the parade of idols, but the hare was able to enjoy the walk along the main road, taking in the sights and smells and joking happily with Michelangelo until he found a nice patch of soft grass where they would have a decent view of the spectacle. Usagi placed his lantern and paints in front of him as he kicked off his geta, letting them clatter to the ground and unceremoniously laid on his stomach in the slightly damp grass to paint his lantern.

“Does this spot look alright to you, my friend?” he asked his companion as an afterthought, even though he had already made himself quite comfortable.

“This spot is _perfection_ ,” Michelangelo declares with enthusiasm. He doesn't seem to mind the damp grass in the slightest as he settles down in a cross-legged position beside Usagi. This is far enough off the path that they are unlikely to be trampled on but near enough that they will see the parade just fine. It's a good place for people watching, in the meantime -- though at the moment Mike is mostly eager to play with his new toys.

It had been difficult to decide on an ink set, in spite of already knowing that he wanted one of the smallest ones. They were all handmade, of course, with slight variations in the wood grain and construction, and he felt compelled to open up several to inspect the contents and admire the brushes. He's not a terribly decisive person.

His hyper-focused appreciation was apparently flattering to the vendor. He was duly charmed by Mike’s admission that they would be decorating their lanterns with his wares. In spite of the slight language barrier, the two hit it off immediately. With the bright-eyed old beaver’s assistance, Mike eventually settled on a small, unlacquered box -- which he learns is called a _suzuribako_ \-- and it includes one brush and a black sumi stick. However, the shinobi is dead set on using red to decorate his lantern -- so a red sumi stick must be an additional purchase, and it's not cheap. For some reason it seems important to honor the red and white color scheme that clearly dominates the Aikawa matsuri.

He was also upsold a second brush at a significant discount. The handle is stained a dark shade of red, coated in some kind of gloss, and very pleasing to the touch. It fits neatly into his kit alongside the first. He liked the idea that they would be able to decorate their lanterns simultaneously, and that he might later use one brush for red ink and one for black.

The final sum owed to the suzuribako vendor is more than Mike had anticipated - though it is not an unreasonable price, considering the quality of the goods. The turtle still feels a little sheepish about the fact that it definitely would have cost less for him to have chosen one of the elaborate lanterns he had picked out originally. By then they had fully committed to the idea.Mike had already peppered the vendor with no less than a dozen questions, and was even treated to a hands-on demonstration of how to grind the ink and achieve the desired consistency. It would be rude to back out of the transaction at this point. So there is a mild twinge of guilt, but it is ultimately trumped by his obligation of courtesy to the kindly merchant -- and his own selfish exhilaration at the prospect of an impromptu art project.

Mike is grateful that Usagi doesn't even mention it. He also blames himself for the fact that they have to spend as long as they do hunting for a spot to watch the parade. If he hadn't taken so long picking out the art supplies… but then, Usagi doesn't seem to mind that either. The laughter and light-hearted conversation they shared as they followed the parade route was more than enough to erase these worries completely.

Michelangelo has been carrying his brand new suzuribako very carefully ever since it was purchased. The ink that was mixed during the demonstration is still in there, wet and sliding around on top of the stone. It is black on one side, red on the other, and a small bit of dark burgundy where the two meet. He didn't want it to spill into the other compartments. Now that they are finally seated, he immediately sets it down in front of him and opens it up. Mike is immediately relieved to see that the prepared sumi is just where it should be, while the pair of brushes and ink sticks remained clean and dry.

The terrapin looks over at Usagi with a smile of pure delight and anticipation. “Heck yeah! Let's do this! Here, you get to use the pretty brush!”

Usagi nodded and smiled brightly, taking the offered brush as his companion sat down at his side. Now that they had secured their paints and their spot to watch the idol parade there was the matter of actually decorating the lanterns to undertake. The hare looked up at the night sky, pondering for a moment or two what he should put onto the little lantern before him. A few, rather elaborate, ideas came to mind but Usagi knew very well that even without any sake in his system his artistic abilities would be hard pressed to pull any of them off.

Instead, the samurai elected on decorating his tiny lantern with cherry blossoms - an easy enough design that his clumsy paw was able to create a vaguely recognizable impression of them. He hummed happily under his breath as he used the “pretty brush” to create winding and twisting branches with the black ink that they had purchased, eventually switching Mikey brushes in order to put little red blossoms along the drying black ink.

He sat up in the grass, ignoring the way that his kimono was wrinkled and dishevelled due to laying flat on his stomach as he had and held the lantern out in his paws to Mikey, flashing the turtle a wide, buck toothed grin.

“What do you think, Mikey-kun? Certainly I won’t be counted amongst the greatest artists of our time, but it turned out better than I had anticipated!”

Michelangelo used his turn with the red brush to cover the majority of his round lantern in slightly overlapping abstract spirals. This was actually fairly fast work, just spinning the brush in little cyclones without too much care for uniformity. Even so, by the time he was done Mike had grown rather bored with drawing circles. It was nice to work to the tune of Usagi’s humming, however. Clearly his friend can carry a tune, though he sounds rather shy about it. His grin stretches a little as he wonders how much sake it would take to get the ronin to overcome that shyness. Probably more than they can afford to spend tonight.

He had been completely engrossed in the lantern-making process, but his head pops up as Usagi addresses him. He leans over and lights up as he takes in what his friend has done. “It’s awesome!” His grin goes playful as he quips, “And I _definitely_ count you among the greatest and most rad artists of your time that I know about. Seriously, it's wicked!” He no longer needs to clarify that ‘wicked’ means good. They got that explanation out of the way on the first day of traveling together.

“I’m putting both of us on my lantern,” he admits as he looks back down at his creation. “Like, chibi little cartoon versions of us. Hope that’s okay… cuz, yeah. Too late to stop now! It’s not done though, so don’t look yet!” It doesn’t occur to him to explain what a cartoon is. Already he’s diving back into painting, oblivious to the rest of the world. He does give Usagi occasional, subtle glances -- mostly for reference.

One side of the lantern had been left intentionally blank, and this small space is where he is now pouring the majority of his attention. The picture is not perfect. He’s a lot more confident drawing chibi Mike, mostly because he’s drawn chibi versions of himself and his brothers plenty of times before this. Chibi Usagi is completely new territory, however. It takes a lot more consideration, and he spends probably twice as long on it. His brush strokes don’t always obey the image in his mind, and every error he makes jumps out at him. One of chibi Mike’s feet is too large, and both of chibi Usagi’s hands are a nightmare… _Oh well_ , he decides. _If I try to fix it, I’ll just make it look worse._ Besides, painting with ink is pretty difficult! And it’s all in the name of fun. He doesn’t sweat it too much.

“Ta-da!” he finally announces once the lantern is complete, sitting up straighter and holding it out for Usagi to inspect. “Just in time, too! Look, I think I see it coming.”

Actually, he should have known it was coming. The drummers near the front of the procession have been audible for several minutes. While he was painting he had been oblivious to the _tum-tum-tumming_ rising up over the heads of the crowd further up the path. Only now that he has finished painting does the sound reach out to fill him with anticipation.

 

Usagi let out a playful laugh as Michelangelo showed him the intricate design which he had painted on his lantern. He had to admit for it being the first time that the shinobi had painted with calligraphy ink it had turned out rather good, including the silly caricature of the two of them which had a fair amount of detail and was much better than anything the ronin could have accomplished in the time that they had been working on their designs. He had barely even managed to put together recognizable cherry blossoms.

"That is really good, Mikey-kun! It is almost a shame to send it off.” With a scrutinizing, but entirely playful glance at the figures the ronin mused, “I especially enjoy my cheeks. They look incredibly fluffy.”

With another laugh the hare moved himself forward a bit, towards the edge of the grass to better watch the parade of idols. The parade had always been one of his favorite parts of the Aikawa Matsuri. The way that the drums filled the air, fans flashed brilliantly in the hands of the dancers who lead the procession of shining golden idols and smaller, but no less lovely, altars on palanquins decorated lavishly with beautiful and delectably pungent flowers, incense and flags. It was a treat for all of the senses.

As the procession came closer to them the samurai found himself instead on his knees, gesturing towards them with an open paw and looking back to Michelangelo as a few of the ornate altars became visible, “These shrines represent the ancestors of many of the local families, it is tradition to honor the spirits of those who have passed in the parade as well as the idols of legend and of the divine. Part of the reason that we light our lanterns later is to help guide the spirits that have honored us with their presence back into the spirit realm. They take with them our hopes and aspirations. If our karma is good, they help to manifest those things for us.”

And so the parade continued, with each passing display the ronin would happily bestow some knowledge or legend upon his companion, save for the few idols he did not recognize, which would instead earn a shrug and a merry laugh as the hare admitted, “I haven’t any idea about that one.”

Michelangelo listens raptly to each story, his eyes fixed on the spectacle of elaborate costumes and portable shrines. “Wow, look at them!” He starts to point at some particularly impressive kimonos, then shoves his hand down purposefully and laughs at his own forgetfulness. He sits on his hand, and thinks that one of these days, maybe it will sink in.

“Oooh, no wait! Look at THAT guy!” He sits on his hand extra hard, but his mouth is open, quite impressed. The indicated guy is wearing some kind of scarf but otherwise topless, in spite of the evening chill. The guy's fur is sleek and grey, thin enough on the chest not to hide anything. It shows off a physique quite nicely. “Hellooo muscles! Yeah, he is carrying that whole front part of the shrine himself! Normally it's two or three dudes at least! What is he, anyway - a squirrel? I never thought I could be hot for a squirrel before…” He has no idea how racist that comment is, and continues to enthuse obliviously, “You would think he should be skinny and skitterish… with, like, adorable cheeks! This world is _crazy_ , man! I am scoping out a super buff hottie squirrel dude.”

The ronin grinned as Michelangelo physically sat on his hands to prevent himself from pointing, much the way that a child might have, but he followed the turtle’s line of sight and almost immediately picked out the gentleman that Michelangelo had been referring to. It was true that the squirrel was physically fit and could certainly be perceived as attractive but the older warrior did not have the same reaction to this samurai as his companion.

Usagi cleared his throat and looked away, with a somewhat awkward chuckle as he quietly mused, “He is alright, I suppose… but not really my type.”

Not that he was really prepared to have the conversation about what his type truly was, especially not with Leonardo’s little brother. He was not even really sure that he had a type outside of the blue clad shinobi, he had not done a lot of looking elsewhere. But he knew that the muscle-bound samurai passing them was not his type at all, regardless of his charming smile and ‘adorable cheeks’.

”Yeah, I’m sorry,” Michelangelo apologizes for himself, looking over at Usagi with a self-conscious laugh that still manages to sound light-hearted. He shrugs and admits, “I gotta lot of types! I see so much good in people, man. It’s just.... there’s always something worth loving, if you look close enough.”

He slings an arm around Usagi and smiles at him, like he wants to say more but dares not.

 _No flirting_. He promised himself. But, _hot damn_.

The ronin had been unprepared for the sudden weight which bore down on his shoulders as Michelangelo’s arm wrapped around him and thus responded with an ‘oof’ of surprise as he caved a bit under the embrace. Had he been in a more sober state of mind the samurai likely would have read far more into the gesture than he did then, instead he found himself writing it off as a simply friendly display from his companion who had shown little restraint in personal boundaries in the time the two had been acquainted. Usagi looked up and caught the smile which was thrown his way and returned it happily, lifting a paw to rest on Mikey’s forearm absently for a few moments as his smile faded and his amaranth eyes lost a bit of their luster.

Any hesitation that the hare showed in accepting the friendly embrace were far less drawn from the shinobi’s actions than they were from his own stabs of guilt when he realized that the buck toothed smile on his lips had been in place due to the fact that Michelangelo’s blue eyes and faint smile were uncannily reminiscent of his older brother’s in that moment and the flutter he felt in his chest at the thought of it being Leo’s arm around him.

Usagi was able to quickly pull himself out of the likely toxic train of thought as the parade before them petered off and the crowd around them began to migrate toward the docks to begin the lighting of the lanterns. He broadened his smile to make up for the temporary withdrawal and inquired brightly, “Should we begin making our way down with the congregation, my friend?”

Michelangelo’s abilities are still numb with intoxication. There is no flash of sadness that might have run like icy water from his friend’s spirit into his own. For once, he is spared that.

It's so nice to relax, to just drink in the sights and enjoy the closeness of his warm-blooded friend. The heat that radiates from him is so nice -- lulling even, with the musicians accompanying parade filling his ears with pleasant sounds. He misses it, when Usagi’s eyes go so far away. He is watching some girls walking in a careful row, their chins up proudly, using that funny big pick to strum their shamisens. _So that is how I'm supposed to use that thing_.

He's surprised when it is time to get moving. Mike had completely forgotten that he was meant to follow the parade route, having gotten quite comfortable where he was at. He blinks thickly at Usagi at first, then seems to realize what's going on and tries to make up for his slowness with a leap to his feet.

Bad idea. His head spins and he winds up staggering and needs to grab the long-eared ronin’s arm for balance. “Whoa, uh - sorry!” he mumbles embarrassed apologies, “Heh, think I stood up too fast. But, I'm good! We can go.”

Mikey lets go of Usagi's arm and even takes a cautious step or two in the right direction in order to prove it. This is made a bit easier by the obvious flow of the crowd moving around them.

Usagi was a little surprised when Michelangelo lept to his feet, but managed to stand in time to let the turtle grab him by the arm to steady himself. Even after Mikey had let go of him the ronin kept his paws extended for a few moments in case he had to quickly catch the boy, but Mike’s balance proved to have returned to him rather quickly and he was able to start walking towards the dock on his own. The hare had begun to follow in suit but after a step or two he backtracked to pick the sumi sets off of the ground, storing them in the sleeve of his kimono and grabbed the painted lanterns before jogging to catch up with the young warrior.

As he fell into step with Mikey the ronin thought about handing the slightly stumbling warrior his lantern, but decided instead to just keep hold of it until they got to the docks. He instead turned his head to the terrapin and asked brightly, “What did you think of the parade, Mikey-kun?”

Mike barely glances back over his shoulder, surprised by the question. “What? I loved it! Wasn’t it obvious? It was way different than parades back home. One of these days after I figure out how to draw a dimensional door between here and there, maybe you can come to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I found a great hidden spot to watch it from! You just gotta get there way in advance and camp out, cuz it ain't safe to take the rooftops when the helicopter camera crews are flying all around trying to get good shots of the floats!” It doesn’t occur to Mike to translate any of this.

Suddenly he halts and wheels 180 degrees in a panic. “WAIT! I don't have my…! Oh.” He relaxes at the sight of the lantern in Usagi’s hands, then seems to startle again as he recalls, “My _suzuribako_! I can't just leave it behind, I have to go back! I -- I’m sorry, I'm such an idiot. I won't be long!” He tries to dart past Usagi and fight the direction of the crowd.

Usagi listened to the turtle enthuse about the parade on his home world and smiled fondly. He had to admit that the idea of a parade in New York was tempting. He had no doubt that it was a spectacular event… though he seriously did doubt that he would be truly invited to the Hamato’s lair any time soon. There was simply no way that he would come to the turtle’s planet without Leonardo’s consent and blessing - which did not seem likely to be in the stars.

His smile remained however as he placated the turtle with a softly spoken, “Someday, my friend.”

That was when the turtle suddenly turned about face to run and grab the sumi sets. The hare turned as well, chasing after his companion and shouting over the din of the crowd, “Ho! Michelangelo-san! I have them in my sleeve! Mikey, come back!”

Mike skids to a halt and comes bounding back, looking sheepish but also much relieved to hear this good news. He gives Usagi his goofy, broad-toothed grin and announces, “Thanks, Usagi! What would I do without you? Lose all my shit, apparently!”

With that, they are finally off -- heading in the right direction, all newly acquired belongings fully accounted for. For the rest of the walk, Michelangelo is floating through the crowd without a care in the world.

Once they make it to the docks, Mike cranes his neck, hunting for a good spot. People have crowded along the water’s edge, and some even wade out into the chill ocean, their lanterns flickering and bobbing in the salty mist and reflecting fairy lights onto the shifting surface of the dark, rolling waters.

“Hey Usagi?” Mike wonders, his forward progress slowing as he turns to look at his companion who is so gallantly bearing both their lanterns. “How’re we supposed ta get these things _lit_?”

Once his terrapin companion is back in tow the ronin turned and began to walk back towards the docks, playfully commenting to the warrior at his side, “It does certainly seem that without me around you would have been quite disappointed upon getting to the dock.”

Usagi paused alongside the ninja, drinking in the sight of little orbs of light beginning to pop up throughout the crowd as people lit their lanterns, especially those with large ones, letting the chambers fill with warm air before they were to be released. Michelangelo’s question brought him out of his silent appreciation of the scene and brought instead a quizzical look to the ronin’s face.

He had not thought about actually lighting the lanterns during their brief preparation for the evening. “I left my flint and steel at the inn…” he sadly mused. The hare did one quick spin, looking at the people gathered near them. There was a gaggle of young women, more squirrels by the look of it, likely no older than Michelangelo not too far off. They had just begun passing around a candle to light their own lanterns, the little flickering flame brought the a smile to the tipsy samurai’s lips. “I think I found a solution. I will be right back, Mikey-kun!” he said as he began to quickly walk towards the group.

When he got close enough to comfortably speak to them the samurai spoke in his graceful Japanese. “Pardon the intrusion, my ladies.” he said, giving the group a deep bow - an act which brought a fit of coy goggles from the peasants who had likely never had a samurai in their presence before, let alone to be treated with such reference by one. “My name is Miyamoto Usagi, and I hate to interrupt your festivities. But my companion and I seem to have forgotten flame for our lanterns.”

The ronin straightened himself up, smiling sheepishly at them and extending the two tiny lanterns in his paws as an example. “Would it be too much trouble for us to share your candle for a few moments?”

The girls seemed to have no problem allowing the warrior to use their candle and as Usagi bowed once again and jogged back to Mikey there was, unbeknownst to him, a now incredibly giggly and flustered group of squirrels now looking his and Mikey’s way every few minutes.

“Haha… you not only got our lanterns lit, you got yourself a fan club!” Mike remarks sweetly. It's a curious statement, especially when only one of the girls was holding a hand fan. But it's still obvious who he is referring to by the way he looks past Usagi towards the girls and even beams and waves his hand back and forth over his head. “Heeeey, domo arigatou! Sumimasen, watashi wa uchiki desu! **(Thank you! Excuse me, I am very shy!)** ”

He looks back at Usagi with mischief in his smile. “Well, that was a huge lie. But it's clear now that you are too irresistible to be left for very long in the company of single ladies!” He folds his arms and cants his head to one side in playful reproach. “F’real, you gotta bring that charm down like… twenty percent, at least. We don't want another noodles-over-the-head incident.”

The ronin raised his brow curiously, looking over his shoulder for a moment at the small horde of girls before turning back to his companion, handing over the now illuminated lantern with a chuckle. “I am not irresistible, by any means. Truly I am little more than a beggar. They are likely drunk and easily impressed.”

Usagi once again chuckles softly, turning his attention to the tiny lantern in his paws which he would release, allowing it to float an inch or two into the air before gently grabbing it and bringing it back down. As he did so he continued to address the warrior at his side, “However, I shall try to be less charming in the future, Michelangelo-san, though in all honesty I had not intended to be charming at all.” The hare added, somewhat sheepishly, “They are _definitely_ not my type. It would be a shame to give them false hope and to end up wearing another meal. Especially seeing as I just washed this kimono.”

“It’s cool, dude! They probably aren’t gold diggers, they’re just obsessed with your good manners and these cheeks!” Mike’s green hand comes up from below to very gently fluff the cloud of fur on one side of Usagi’s face. _Irresistible_.

 _Damn it_ , Business Mike is chastising himself. _We agreed, no flirting_.

“If they come over here, I will be your yojimbo. I will take incoming soup to the face on your behalf! There’s something in the Bushido books about how honorable that is, right? Because there totally should be.”

He doesn't ask for his lantern back, just makes gimme fingers and takes it. Michelangelo beams and declares, “I’m glad I finished the red part! I nearly gave up on it, I was getting so bored with painting nothing but circles. But now that it's lit up, it looks pretty sweet! Yours does too. I'm glad we got the red, it really makes it pop. Without the cherry blossoms yours would just be plain branches, and that's not very festive…”

With lowered inhibitions, Mikey has a tendency to ramble even more so than he usually does. Now he finally pauses for breath, and looks at Usagi to wonder, “When are we supposed to send these off, anyway?”

Usagi had been focusing his attention on the little lantern in his paws, so he was caught by surprise when Mikey’s hand touched the side of his face. The ronin’s pink eyes widened at the touch, any response he may have had getting momentarily stuck in his throat as the image of the shinobi before him, one with such a striking resemblance to the warrior he loved came into focus.

There were, of course differences between the two. But with the sake in his system the subtle things such as where light green spots on the scales were or the way that Mikey’s smile was more broad at times… These things were easier to miss. And for just a moment Usagi was left smiling stupidly at the turtle, warmth gathering in his cheeks.

It only lasted a moment. But that moment was enough to slightly sober the veteran warrior who cleared his throat and looked around the crowd, finally spotting the minstrels a little ways off. He nodded his head in their direction, glad for a reason to look away from the shinobi for a little while. “The musicians over there will begin to play their music here soon. When their song comes to an end everyone will release their lanterns.”

 _You see? That was too much. You're making him uncomfortable!_ It is quite obvious to Mikey this time, the way his companion’s eyes go hot and then cold. Even without access to his spooky and troublesome abilities, he has always been fairly tuned into the feelings of others.

On the other hand, just for a moment... he thinks maybe Usagi was _feeling it_. Mike politely follows his friend’s gaze to watch the minstrels tuning their instruments on a temporarily erected platform. Even as he admires their festive kimonos and exotic instruments, Michelangelo finds a part of his brain parceled off to linger on it. The spark of attraction between them had been mutual, before the possibility had been gently pushed away by the older samurai.

Michelangelo has to remind himself for the hundredth time that Usagi is still getting over someone -- they both are, really! _Neither of us is ready for anything to happen, so -- so nothing WILL happen! So put it out of your head, Mike._

It’s just that Usagi is so damn pretty, even when he is sad. Mikey wishes he knew how to comfort the ronin without igniting within himself what he suspects is rapidly becoming a _major_ crush.

The ronin took a few moments of looking out over the crowd in order to settle himself once again, to shake both the grief and guilt that had taken hold within him at the sudden feelings which Michelangelo’s innocent jest had stirred up within him.

There had been several moments over the past days when Michelangelo reminded him in painful ways of Leonardo, especially since he had done away with the mask which had served to effectively distinguish him from his brothers. But none of those reminders had been as vivid as this. None had stung quite like this had. And certainly none had made him wish that he had another glass of sake in his hands as he wished for now.

 _But none of that is Michelangelo's fault_ , he silently chastised himself, i _t is your own fault for being such a sentimental fool, Miyamoto. For holding onto feelings which are so obviously no longer returned._

_It could not be clearer that whatever future that you and Leonardo may have had together is dead, it is your karma. He does not love you anymore. He likely never truly did. He was young. It was lust. Nothing more._

He did not truly believe it. But saying the words in his head helped him to suppress the tumultuous feeling of butterflies in his chest, leaving a cold void in its place. It was better to feel empty than to cling to false hopes.

As he watched the crowd he noted several merchants back the way they had come selling sake and wine. The ronin firmly decided that they would be their next stop as soon as they had released their lanterns, the desire to once again have that artificial warmth fill him growing too strong for him to resist.

The hare took a deep breath and fixed his best smile back onto his face, turning back to his companion as music suddenly filled the air. “Alright, my friend!” he supplied enthusiastically, "As you prepare to release your lantern, you are supposed to send your prayers and hopes to the Gods, cosmos, ancestors, or whatever powers you see fit. When you release the lantern the spirits help to carry those prayers.”

Usagi looked down at the little lantern in his hands. For his entire life the rabbit had been full of prayers and dreams and wishes. But as he looked at the little light he felt only sadness. The music came to a crescendo and lanterns had begun to lift into the air around them. The samurai lifted his own with the bitter thought of, _Karma… do your worst_.

As the little ball rose into the air he had a small stab of regret for letting his emotions get the best of him but he shrugged it off, silently assuring himself that the God's would not begrudge him so small a trespass. He watched the night sky which was suddenly full of light as the lanterns danced in the wind. He turned his head to Mikey and asked, “Is this just like the.... Twisted, wasn't it?”

Michelangelo glances over at the unexpectedly heavy implications of this lantern ritual. Even this is tied up in the will of the gods. He looks down at his lantern, startled and scrambling to gather his scattered focus. He takes a deep breath and looks at the lantern in his hands. The silly chibi figures of himself and Usagi. He’s made his friend look so happy in this picture, but -- he’s not. So he thinks: _Please help me to be the best yojimbro I can be to Usagi, and not screw this up somehow. And, uh -- if I can help put him back on the path to being happy again? I call dibs on helping with that. And. And, shit!_ ”

The last notes of the song are hanging in the air. He holds up the lantern and just as he is letting go, he thinks desperately: _Oh, crap! And I really, really need to pass my Five-Fold Path trials!_

The lantern is rising up into the sky now. _Probably should have lead with that one, dummy_ , Mike chides himself in the back of his mind, but he just has to laugh and hope that maybe some gods here will get him, forgive him. Stranger things have happened. “Mad respect!” Mike calls after the lanterns, or more likely, the gods or cosmos or whatever. He kisses his knuckles and holds a fist up in the air, very serious and focused until he tunes back in to Usagi, who is asking him possibly the best question ever.

Really, this is a question he would never in a million years get from his brothers -- an opening into which Mike may return with, “Tangled? Why -- yes, actually! I would love to tell you more about my favorite Disney Princess.” _And maybe this is what my friend needs more than anything -- silly entertainment. A distraction. I’m good at distractions!_

“A lot of things were way similar, now that I think about it!” Michelangelo decides as he compares the two in his mind. “There was totally a parade in both. And people were grooving out to music and dancing throughout the day. And after the sun goes down, lanterns are released over the water, and there is a boat ride… that scene is the best.”

Huh… He was right about the smaller lanterns. Their tiny, hand-painted offerings seem to rise quickly to overtake the others, even those of a similar size -- caught on some lucky updraft, or perhaps just eager to reach the ears of the gods. Mike watches until he can no longer be sure through the mist and the crowding of other lanterns which pinprick in the distance is his. “So, I guess I dig Rapunzel because -- okay, girl’s been sheltered all her life, right? She’s like a princess with fabulous magic hair, but she was stolen as a baby and locked away in this tower for eighteen whole years. Not able to see the world, not able to make any friends -- it’s bogus. But she tries to stay happy. She’s like, become an expert at cooking and pottery and every inch of the tower inside is painted all crazy. She is stifled but doing her best! So one day, this handsome thief dude with a porn star name comes and frees her. Rapunzel’s going off on this crazy adventure with him suddenly! She’s finally seeing the world and on top of that she is totally falling for this spontaneous, dangerous guy she is traveling around with, and --” _Oh, shit._

Mike cuts his summary short suddenly with an apologetic laugh. “I just think it’s a really great story. And all the music is great. And the animation. And, okay, Mandy Moore is no Idina Menzel but I still think she did a bang up job with it, and I will fight anybody who says otherwise. And -- nice, are we getting more sake?” He’s been trailing after Usagi and rambling, and has only just noticed that the ronin had a destination in mind, which is now just ahead. He grins and comments, “You really _are_ spoiling me tonight.”

The ronin listened intently to the story of the princess with magic hair as they walked through the crowd towards the stand which he had chosen. It certainly sounded like an enchanting story and he could see the appeal of a character who was locked away through her childhood and finally let to experience the world. Minus the abuse of it, the magic hair and a thief with porn star hair, whatever that meant, the story somewhat mirrored the experiences of the children of the Hamato Clan.

When Mikey inquired about the sake the ronin had already ordered a decent sized bottle for the pair, forgoing the usual jar and glasses so that they could simply take the bottle with them. When he exchanged the coin for the drink the hare did note that only a coin or two still remained in the pouch. He found that he truly did not care. They could either find more work in the morning or they could dip into the coin that Leonardo had given them to buy their supplies.

A part of him even found jaded satisfaction in the idea that, in a way, Leonardo had given he and Mikey essentially a free pass to engage in the frivolous and decadent behaviour of the evening.

He turned back to the turtle with the bottle in his paw and nodded lightly. “I suppose that there has been a bit of spoiling this evening. But, it is your first matsuri.” With a soft smile which betrayed far more of the samurai’s lingering sadness than he intended it to, he added, “And I have a feeling that it has been far too long since either of us has been spoiled.”

Usagi began walking once again, heading back towards the docks. As he walked he tore the cork which sealed the bottle of spirits free with his teeth, spitting the cork out onto the ground before taking a drink directly from the bottle which he then handed to Mike. When the turtle had grabbed the bottle from him he quickly explained with a more genuine smile, “If we get back to the docks quickly we can board the first ferry back to Niigata. The ferry is my favorite place to watch the lanterns from. Most of them will go out to sea for several miles.”

“Sure, let's do it! Sounds beautiful…” Mike enthuses, glad to be on to the next thing and following someone else's plan. He takes another slug from the bottle, then hands it back for Usagi to hold while they make their way back through the crowd. Mikey is not feeling too greedy about the booze. He has had plenty already.

As he trails after Usagi, Michelangelo is grateful for his longer limbs which make it easier for a lazy guy like him to match the long-eared ronin’s aggressive pace.

Eventually an uneasy feeling steals over the exiled shinobi -- a sense of being pursued. Michelangelo lags behind a step or two and glances back over one shoulder as he wonders about it, but doesn't stop completely. He doubts his instincts, which he knows are cloudy right now. It seems possible that what really chases after them is... sadness. They are both haunted by memories of the recent past, and it’s like this spiral of dark thinking might engulf them if they don’t keep moving.

As the vast black and midnight blue horizon of the sea comes into view, Mike suddenly remembers, “Oh, crap! I need my paint box thingy--” The correct name for it is on the tip of his tongue. He already said it a bunch of times earlier tonight, how can he have forgotten it already? _Argh, infuriating brain!_

He gives up trying to come up with the word and makes gimme fingers, pleading, “ _Kudesai_?”

Once it has been fished from his companion’s voluminous sleeves and Mike has the sumi set in hand, he opens his mouth to explain himself before thinking better of it. They are in a time crunch, after all! “Forgot to do somethin’, it’ll just take a sec, then I’ll berightbackipromise!”

Michelangelo heads for the water’s edge with determination, still clutching the box in one hand. He puts it into his mouth and clambers down the side of the dock at a point where the water below is still rather shallow.

Wading in salt water up to his knees, Mike opens the box and belatedly tries to clean the ink stone. The merchant had said it was important not to let ink dry on the stone! He said it was supposed to be cleaned off while the ink is still wet. But of course he had forgotten, and some of the red and black ink on his ink stone has already dried. He gets as much as he can off in a minute and a half or so of scrubbing with his fingers, and leaves some sea water sloshing around on the stone, thinking maybe he can let it soak there to prevent any more drying. He tells himself he’ll have to give it a more thorough cleaning once they get back to the inn.

Unfortunately this is the last time tonight Mike will consider the proper care of his sumi set. The water will probably stay in there soaking into the wood for longer than he originally intended. Mikey climbs back up onto the dock, his hakama freshly soaked. He hurries back over to Usagi. “Sorry to hold you up,” he apologizes sheepishly, suppressing the urge to shiver with the now heightened chill.

Rather than hand the calligraphy kit back, he tries to figure out whether his sleeves have hidden pockets. He is not really grasping how the rabbit manages to store things there. However, he doesn't want it to burst open and possibly stain his friend's kimono.

Still fighting with his sleeves, Mike wonders, “Are, uh -- are we all good to board?”

Usagi had taken back the bottle of sake, tipping it back to pour a generous amount of the wine down his throat just as Michelangelo abruptly turned to him asking for the newly acquired sumi sets. The hare tucked the bottle under one arm, careful not to spill any on himself as he grabbed the small wooden cases from his sleeve.

He nodded to the shinobi as he explained that he would be right back and watched as the turtle ran to the water. The ronin occupied this brief amount of time by making his way to the ferryman, surrendering the last few coins from their purse in order to secure their passage back to the main island.

Leaning casually against one of the wooden posts, the hare drank more of the wine and observed his friend who was currently waist deep in the ice cold water below, cleaning the ink out of the sumi set. The warmth and fog of sake had once again begun to settle in his chest and head, subduing the lingering guilt and sadness that has begun to creep their way into his mind and taint the evening.

By the time that Mikey clambered back into the docks, dripping wet, the smile that Usagi had worn through most of the evening was again on his face, a soft chuckle escaping from his lips at the state of the warrior before him.

“Hai. We can board…” he mutters as he reaches out to help the turtle with his sleeve, chuckling merrily as he does so. “It is sewn shut here.” the hare informs him, indicating the lower portion of the sleeve. “You can just drop that in like this, the sleeve will catch it.”

When the sumi set was finally safely tucked away in the shinobi’s kimono Usagi nodded his head towards the ferry. The lanterns would certainly be beautiful, but more than the view the ronin was looking forward to the soft bedding that awaited him back at the inn. It had been far too long since he had slept on anything softer than grass and the idea of an actual pillow sounded like nirvana.

As they got on board, Usagi chose a spot along the stern for them to stand, deciding that it would be the most efficient place to watch the lanterns float out to sea. Already the skies were positively filled with the floating orbs and cubes, dancing in the breeze with each gust of wind. He rested his elbows on the railing of their vessel, still clutching the bottle in paw. With a tilt of the head he inquired of the shinobi, “What are your thoughts of Aikawa? Did you have a good time, Michelangelo-san?”

“Dude, I am trying so hard not to break into song right now,” Michelangelo enthuses, staring up at the sky. “It was the best!” He tears his gaze away from the sight of the lanterns, flashing Usagi a grin.

But he can't stray long from that sight, of the lanterns hanging in the sky above the water. And it really might as well just be the two of them there in the boat.

_And it's warm and real and bright_   
_And the world has somehow shifted_   
_All at once everything looks different_   
_Now that I see you_

But it's all in his head, of course. Like so many of the best things in life. He breathes deep, drinking in the sight, and looks over at Usagi, wishing that this swelling, romantic feeling inside him were _real_.

He looks back up at the lanterns and smiles. It's still such an awesome sight. A night he will remember forever.

Michelangelo reaches for the bottle of sake, somehow forgetting that he had decided he’d had enough. It's cold here on the stern of the ship, and the drink puts a false warmth in him that keeps the ferry ride quite pleasant in spite of the coastal winds cutting into his wet garments. But the chill takes its toll, lowering his core body temperature steadily even as he continues to drink and chat with Usagi amicably.

Things get hazy after that…

There is a rousing stab of fear as it is suddenly time to move, and he doesn't remember why. He tries to obey anyway, but his limbs are sluggish. And… Usagi is there, supporting him.

God, he is warm. Soft. More than anything Mike wishes he could just bury his beak into that softness and stay there forever. But it's time to move. He doesn’t want to be any trouble, not to Usagi. He cooperates, lets the ronin heft and lead him.

Mike hears his thick-tongued babbling as he apologizes, tries to explain, “I’m sorry. It's not… it's not just the booze. Wh-when we get too cold. We start to shut down. Get hella tired...”

It has fallen into place by now, where they are going now that they’ve left the boat. “I’ll be fine, I just… I might need help. Getting to the inn.” But of course, Usagi is already helping. Michelangelo flashes him a grateful and pathetic grin.

Lanterns filled the night sky, their soft red glow reflecting in the steady waves below them as the ferry calmly drifted back toward the main island in the breeze. Several times a lantern would come close enough that the ronin was able to touch it with the tips of his claws, sending it floating steadily upward with a flick of his wrist. Once or twice he thought that he may have even caught sight of their lanterns, but he could not be sure of it.

Conversation came easily, particularly as the bottle between them emptied. Soon any thought of the sadness he had felt earlier that evening were completely lost within the profoundly pleasant fog of sake. He had drank far more than he had intended, but he found that he did not care. The way that his head was swimming and the warmth was caught in his chest seemed, in that moment, well worth any discomfort he might have in the morning for his overindulgence.

He swayed on the spot when the ferry finally made port, bumping against the dock and throwing him momentarily off balance. He recovered quickly, laughing at his own clumsiness for a moment before turning to his young friend, who looked as though he may fall asleep right where he stood.

He threw one arm around Mikey’s shell as well as draping one of the turtle's arms across his shoulder. It was a good thing that even an extremely intoxicated Michelangelo was able to support some of his own weight, so helping him along the path to the inn was not such a trying event.

He knew very well how the cold affected the terrapin warriors, having dealt with it personally several times in the past, so the brief explanation did not come as much of a surprise to the ronin. The new information did cause him to step a little more lively, knowing that his companion needed to get into a warm bed quickly or his health could very well suffer for it.

Mike had said it wasn't just the booze… but he knows it is at least somewhat to blame for the state he is in. It was _stupid_ , trying to clean the inkstone before getting on the ferry. Would another hour or so really have made much difference? He should have waited until he was back at the inn! He should have thought about how cold the night had grown, or all the wind on a moving ferry. _That's the problem,_ he laments to himself as he trudges alongside Usagi. _I just DO stuff, and never think about it first._

He sees little of his surroundings for a time, just beating himself up over his sorry condition and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. But the ronin guiding him is steadfast and calm, and apparently content with his lot of helping to lug a turtle back to their lodgings. All of this rubs off on Michelangelo, little by little, until eventually he lets up on himself, stops feeling so embarrassed, and starts to take in the scenery of Niigata by night.

The stars are bright overhead, without a speck of pollution, and even now a stray lantern can be seen hanging on the horizon. It is quieter and more deserted now than they have ever seen the port city. Most everyone is either still at the festival or shut up in their homes for the night. The Niigata guards they encounter are lax and very nearly friendly. They are not going to harass or question a ronin who had left the festival early to help an intoxicated friend get back to his inn. Usagi might be doing them a favor, as far as they're concerned. Who knows what trouble a drunken foreigner left on his own might have caused?

The act of walking had been rousing for the first half of the trek. After a time, the quiet and tranquility of the city and his companion have an effect and lethargy once again creeps into his limbs and his mind.

The ronin made his way as quickly as his own sluggish legs could manage with the added weight of his companion. It was slow going and he needed to pause frequently to readjust his grip on the boy, but soon the pair found themselves back at their inn. If walking down the street was a difficult task it was nothing compared to getting the shinobi up the flight of stairs that lead to their room.

The process of getting Michelangelo into his bed was executed with far less grace than he cared to admit, for a moment or two resulting in the pair becoming a tangle of limbs before Usagi was able to extract himself from the heap. Luckily, even though he was fairly intoxicated himself, the hare still had the presence of mind to get the wet fabrics off of his companion before pulling the blanket up over the ninja’s chest.

Michelangelo is really out of it, just dead on his feet by the time he is dropped onto the futon. He laughs when he realizes that Usagi has fallen on top of him. His words are mush as he announces, “ _Heh_. Drunker’n y’look...”

Usagi seemed tireless during the trek, always sure of the route and aware of their surroundings. He had put on an especially convincing face of sobriety around the guards! But it pleases Michelangelo immensely for some reason, to see the yojimbo go off duty right before his eyes. Then there is just Miyamoto, who is sleepy and drunk and finally able to show it, staggering for the bed, and then losing his footing on the dismount with truly spectacular results.

 _Sooooo nice_. Mikey’s eyes flutter closed. He wishes the ronin would stay here in a pile with him. His friend is so fluffy and warm. The turtle mumbles an incoherent protest as the long-eared ronin detaches from him. One hand sleepily chases in his direction before flopping down onto the mattress. He flips onto his plastron, the most instinctual sleeping position for turtles; all the while, his blue eyes remain closed.

He must be pulled at least semi upright again in order to be disrobed. When this starts to happen, Mike does rouse enough to blink groggily at the handsome rabbit who is tugging at his clothes His confusion gives way to sluggish cooperation -- then a devilish grin and a drunken jape, unable to resist. “Wha... y’doan like foreplay?” He snickers at his own joke, the words ending in a scratchy cough. Because he is _Mr. Smooth, oh yeah_!

Getting undressed around people is not actually a big deal to him. _Being undressed_ , however… wow! It is simultaneously awkward and awesome. His clumsy hands are trying to help but mostly getting in the way, and it is honestly not on purpose! But at the same time he is absolutely digging the feeling of the ronins sword-calloused hands on his body.

But man! Once those last layers are peeled away and the air hits his wet skin, the sensation Mike experiences is not at all pleasant. His shivering starts up again, more violently than before, and the need to lie down quickly surpasses any lingering desire he had for more drunk and totally ill-advised flirtatious banter.

Mikey remembers being very grateful to Usagi for sliding the blanket over his shell, trying to say thanks and being unable to get the words past clacking teeth. And after that... nothing.


	13. Communication Aides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raphael goes to extremes to try to make amends with his brother Donatello.

Naturally the communication aids had been Donatello's idea. Raph had scoffed inwardly at first, mostly at the sheer eggheaded bureaucracy of the suggestion, but he had been willing to give it a try. His brother had pointed out that too often they didn't understand why they had set one another off in the first place. Don thought that putting their grievances and points of view on paper could help them 'expedite conflict resolution'.

After just a few exchanges of these, Raph had to admit -- to himself, of course, not out loud -- the communication aids were effective. Their fights no longer resulted in lingering grudges. Violent actions and words spoken in anger no longer piled up on one another until the animosity was unbearable. It's also a lot easier to check off some boxes and apologize with a note on the door than to speak the words aloud to his brother's face. There is some shame in that -- it feels a bit cowardly, but it's the truth. With this method of Don's, he is more likely to actually follow through and apologize.

Raphael's own default memo is much less complex than Don's. The reasons he flies off the handle tend to be fairly straight-forward and predictable -- in his eyes, anyway. So far he has not seen a good need to alter it, but he thinks it is time to do so now.

 _Don didn't sleep AGAIN last night! And I know for a fact he didn't sleep the night before that, either. No wonder training wiped him out. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did_... Raphael carries the note back to his room with him, still looking it over as he gently shuts the door behind him.

_Man... now that I think about it, I'm not sure he slept at all this weekend. That's too fucking long. Nobody would be stable on so little sleep._

The red-masked shinobi takes off the heavy gold pendant and tosses it carelessly onto the nearest surface, a particularly ugly dresser with chipping paint and warped wood that prevents the bottom drawer from shutting. He sits down in front of his badly neglected PC and begins the aggravating process of waiting for it to boot up. It's a piece of shit and always takes forever, but he doesn’t actually want Don to build him a better one. Even fast and cutting edge computers have the potential to aggravate him, and when that happens Raph doesn't trust himself not to snap and drive his sai into it. It's better for everyone if he sticks to computers that are at least a decade old.

 _Blackmail... Jesus_ , Raph broods over the letter while his computer screen continues to optimistically promise that Windows is loading his personal settings. _I hadn't thought of it that way_. Of course he never actually planned on running to Leo about the identity theft. If Don had been truthful -- and he had seemed very honest, in that moment -- then it sounded to him like a victimless crime, something done for the greater good of protecting the family from Karai. If anything, Raphael admired his genius brother for being so damned clever. Right under Leo’s beak, no less! The whole thing is kind of beautiful.

But at the same time, he had sensed an advantage -- and like any good scrapper, he had instinctively pressed it. Raphael had thought the smallness of what he had asked Don to do would have been obvious. He had thought it would be clear that he was letting Don off the hook easy, even offering him a bargain: his formal promise not to tell the _real_ Hamato jonin, all for the very low cost of eating some goddamn breakfast before they train! He had thought it was a pretty good deal. Anyway, shouldn't his grin or his easy-going delivery have been a clue?

But Don could not have been sure about any of that. That's just how Donnie is. He combs through the pure data in front of him. He puts aside all the information which he has guessed and favors only what he can prove. While extremely perceptive overall, Don can't read people as easily as Mikey or Leo because of this.

_If you just listen to the words you actually said, then... yeah. It sounds a whole lot like blackmail. Good one, asshole. Way to be a friend._

_And that's the real crime_ , Raph realized as a shiver of discomfort crept over his skin. _It's not even the blackmail. He has been so secretive lately with all of us, but he has finally been opening up to you. He has been trusting you with a lot of his secrets lately, and this morning was another one. It probably ain't an easy thing to confess, especially when he's been deliberately keeping this stuff from everyone and getting away with it for so long. You didn't respect any of that._

As he thinks back on the conversation with more consideration for Don’s perspective, Raph realizes that he must have hit upon the one big downside to his brother’s whole stock-market-via-identity-theft scheme: Leonardo eventually finding out. The chunin imagines the severity of their big brother's disappointment, and the inevitable confrontation that would follow -- one which Leonardo would only have to turn into a physical confrontation to win without question.

_Jesus, Raph… You are the lowest kind of asshole. You not only blackmailed him, you probably threatened him with the very thing he fears the most!_

He couldn't afford this. It was important to understand how he had wronged his brother, but he couldn't afford to let this melancholy creep over him, like it always does. He searches his heart, trying to chase after the hope he had felt when he initially looked over Donnie's communication aid. _You two are gonna work this out_ , he tries to reassure himself. It was obvious from the boxes Don checked (including those he checked and then erased) just how badly his brother wanted for them to be cool again. He tried to focus on that. They had already begun to work it out, just by Don leaving him this letter. _And now it's your turn._

Raphael looks up from his deep introspection to see that the desktop icons have loaded. He wonders how long he has been slumped on the ripped and duct-taped office chair in his room, staring at the letter, lost in his thoughts.

 _You and Don are gonna be fine_ , he tells himself again, with more conviction, _if you can just figure out how to reply._

He opens up the document that contains the blank version of his letter, the one he has never bothered to alter before now. Like basically everything he has ever bothered to save on this computer, this document lives on the desktop. He knows it drives Don crazy to see so much digital clutter. His brother can't seem to help pointing out that all the stuff saved on his desktop is one of the reasons his computer boots up so slowly. But the truth is, Raph isn't sure he could ever find the files again if they were saved anywhere else. It is just one of the many things about computers that he knows he ought to understand by now, which means he is much too embarrassed to ask.

There are no fancy grids or plotted graphs on his memo, just a single column of boxes and text down the center of the page. It had taken him a while to figure out how to make a check box, and he no longer remembers how it was done. Instead of trying to figure it out all over again, he highlights one of the pre-existing ones and uses copy and paste to duplicate it. He puts the new line alongside the other violation about technobabble.

The new addition reads:

**□ 48 HOURS WITHOUT SLEEP VIOLATION**

It seems like a fair number. Nobody would be on top of their game after being awake for so long. It can't be good for him. How many of their fights have begun because Don was pissy from too little sleep? Probably a lot more often than Raph realized. He's only just starting to understand the full extent of Donatello’s insomnia.

He considers and quickly rejects the idea of adding a line about eating before training. He doesn't want to get into that again, not yet -- not after the first attempt to assert himself about this was botched so badly. Anyway, this beef he has about Don not sleeping is not a command from the temporary Jonin. It is something that he thinks could be damaging to their friendship and fraternity, so it belongs on the list.

Raphael doesn't own a printer. Print jobs from this computer are sent to Donnie's nerd nook downstairs. He pokes around the desk drawer where he keeps some pens and markers until he finds the red sharpie he usually uses, then leaves his room and jumps down from the upper balcony to retrieve the print out.

When he is finished filling out the appropriate check boxes on the front of the memo, he flips the document over and begins to write a longer note on the back. Once again he must use his left hand, which means writing the note takes forever. There is one benefit to this: it forces him to really think about everything before he writes it, because every word is such a time commitment. He doesn't want to have to reprint the damned thing and start over.

About two-thirds of the way through his note, it occurs to Raph that he could have just typed the letter. Even his one-fingered pecking would have been faster than this! But having written this much, he has already committed. Might as well see it through.

When he is finished with it, the communication aid he leaves on Donatello's door looks like this:

 

 

 

 

Raphael makes sure the hall lights are off before peeking his head into Donnie's bedroom to check on him. He moves at an ultra slow pace and sets his feet down with care as he creeps further into the room, employing all the best practices for stealth that have been drilled into him over the years, loathe to disturb his exhausted little brother if he is finally catching up on some much needed rest.

Once he is close enough, the turtle stands motionless, listening to the rhythm of his brother’s breathing, watching the familiar curve of his shell beneath the purple quilt for a gentle rise and fall. He will retreat as soon as he feels satisfied.

When the door had finally closed behind Raph, leaving Donatello in blissful darkness the turtle had shifted his position on the bed, tucking his knees up against his plastron to make himself seem as small as possible.  
This morning had been an absolute fiasco. He had begun the day with such optimism, especially when he had decided to open up even more to Raph and let his brother know more of the secretive life that he had lead in solitude for so many years. All of that blew up in his face. Even if Raphael had not meant to slight him as he did, the fact remained that after Donatello took a risk to open up to his brother, he felt as though he had been completely invalidated and betrayed.

He knew that when Raphael received his communication aide that he would take the message of betrayal seriously and would likely work to try to repair any damages that were done by his actions. After all, Raphael was trying very hard to be there for him in a situation that had to be difficult, if not nearly impossible to bear witness to.

Donatello knew that he was sick. Both physically and mentally. It was becoming more obvious and more serious with every passing day that the genius was losing his grip. But everyday, without fail, Raphael was by his side through the madness.

He tossed and he turned for quite some time before he was able to even get remotely comfortable. His eyelids had only just begun to grow heavy when he heard the shift of air from his door and the almost silent padding of feet on his bedroom floor. The purple banded shinobi cracked open his eyes, finding the form of Raphael in the darkness. He slowly slid his blanket down off of his face and whispered, his voice cracking from having gone unused after having been sick.

“I-I’m sorry about training, Raph. I didn’t mean to mess up on the first one.”

 The other turtle steps forward until he is beside the bed. He crouches down so as not to loom and matches his volume to Donnie’s whisper as he answers simply, “I know.”

He falls silent, feeling a million different things, unable to give voice to any of them.

Raphael is glad for the darkness. It makes it easier to follow through with what he had already decided to do if he found Don still awake in here. “Erased checkboxes count, just so you know,” he mumbles quietly as he eases his weight onto the edge of the mattress and gently nudges his brother’s blanketed form with one elbow. “Scoot the fuck over, man. Give a turtle some room.”

That's right, the new plan is to snuggle Don to sleep. And if it doesn't work, at least he’ll have gotten that hug out of the way.

Donatello’s eyes are trained on the hulking form of his older brother, even if all he can see in the dark room is the other turtle’s silhouette. The soft tone that comes out of his brother feels almost uncharacteristically gentle, but the genius turtle has come to know that the red clad shinobi may actually be the softest and most caring of his brothers beneath the hard exterior that he wore.

He scolded himself lightly when Raphael made mention of the erased check boxes. A part of him knew that once he checked a box and decided against actually revealing that much about what was going on that he should just print off a new sheet to give to Raph. But he was smart enough to recognize that there was a part of him that always wanted Raph to discover the very light traces of graphite that were left on the paper, the slight indent from his pen or even the traces that an eraser left on the page.

All of it was a test. He did not mean to be constantly testing Raphael, but it was almost compulsive at this point. A part of him felt that if his brother was not paying enough attention to the incredibly subtle clues he left for him, then he did not deserve to be there to help him.

It was unfair. And it was extremely passive aggressive. But that was Donatello’s nature.

Don scooched over in the bed until his carapace bumped against the wall, allowing Raph to get into a comfortable position on the bed before he lay his head on Raph’s chest, letting out a soft sigh as he pulled his thick down quilt over the both of them.

“I know they do…” he quietly replied in a soft and muffled voice once he had effectively hidden his face between the blanket and Raph’s plastron. After a few moments of silence the purple banded shinobi whispered, so low that he was uncertain that his brother would even catch it, “I’m a fucking wreck.”

Raph eases onto the bed and lay back on Don’s mattress. It's weirdly squishy at first, yet surprisingly comfortable once he settles back and it conforms to the weight of his shell. _It’s that memory foam stuff_ , his brain supplies. He isn’t used to sleeping on beds, in general, but thinks he might actually be able to fall asleep on his back on a bed like this. Not that he could ever say so. Too long has he been a rabid defender of the superiority of hammocks.

The older brother’s massive arms settle around Donatello in a firm embrace. His hardened physique and bony plastron don’t make for the most comfortable cuddle in the world, but the feel of it beneath the cheek is cool and primordially familiar, recalling ancient and uncomplicated childhood nights in a tangled pile sharing a single blanket. These days there is nothing soft about any part of Raphael’s body -- not on the outside, anyway. Even so, his hug is very protective and secure.

When Donnie speaks, Raph can't be sure he heard the last bit correctly, but he thinks he did and decides to trust it. He has always been comfortable with relying on gut instincts.

“Maybe… but if you are, that's okay.” His hushed voice in the darkness is low and full of gravel, a string of comforts offered in an even cadence. “You don't gotta be a sensible, solid rock all the time. You are not a pure logic robot, Donnie, no matter how much you might wanna be sometimes. When terrible shit happens, it can fuck a person up for a while. It’s kinda supposed to. And when it does, it don’t make it that person’s fault. Master Splinter taught me that. Maybe not _exactly_ in those words, heh. But that's what he meant. Had to hear that talk more than once, you know?”

Slowly his eyes are adjusting to the darkness. He can just barely make out the phosphorescent yellow-green glow of the plastic stars which have decorated the ceiling of his little brother’s bedroom for as far back as he can remember. His gaze roams over them for a few silent beats before he goes on.

“It sucks like hell to feel like you’re the unstable one on the team - believe me, I know. But it won't be that way forever. Anyway, that team is on a serious hiatus right now. Ain't nobody here you gotta keep up appearances for. We got nothing but time on our hands suddenly to regroup and make plans and do whatever it takes to turn this thing around.”

Donatello let out a chuckle. The noise was nowhere near anything comical or humorous, but rather it was a self deprecating and dismal sound. A scowl appeared on his face, but the grimace was masked by the darkness around them.

The purple banded shinobi had long since come to terms with the fact that his mental health was on the decline, with no end to the spiral in sight. Every day seemed to come with new challenges and while he may be extraordinarily brilliant he was very fast running out of methods to combat them.

It was as though he were drowning, caught by reeds in the bottom of some vast, deep and dark lake, but the more that he struggled, the more that he fought to get his head above water, the more ensnared that he became.

His every waking moment was dedicated to preventing a future which seemed to be coming at him unerringly. For all of his efforts, clues that it still lay in wait surfaced around him. Each omen mocked him, making him feel as though no matter how hard he fought against them that it was all for naught.

He pressed his beak more firmly against Raph’s plastron and replied in a voice full of self-loathing venom, “There is a difference between feeling like the most unstable one on the team and knowing beyond a doubt that it is true.”

“No,” Raph disagrees softly. “Not as much difference as you might think. In a family like ours, nobody's gonna punish you for an insecurity like that… mostly it'll just be you punishin’ yourself. The end result is still you bein’ down on yourself and constantly kickin’ yer own ass, whether or not it's justified. Either way, it don't help nothing. And when that's what's goin’ on, it can be real hard to tell the difference. There’s plenty of days where I feel like maybe I haven't changed at all. Like I just got everybody fooled, and all it’ll take is one more screw up for them to see the truth.”

Raphael sighs, unsure whether or not he is helping. He wants to reassure Donatello somehow, to ease his brother’s troubled, overactive mind, but words alone might not be enough to soothe him. Maybe Don won't be able to relax and truly heal until Raphael can serve him Karai’s head on a platter. Is that all it would take in order to free Don of this waking horror? Would his nightmares finally stop?

 _If it were that simple_ , he thinks, _I would’a slaughtered that bitch months ago. Kill-free count be damned._

Many troubling questions weigh on his mind about the days to come and the impact of their actions, but now is not the right time to hash them out with Don. “Sorry…” he whispers with a fresh stab of humility. “Not just for keeping you awake, I’m sorry for all of it. Probably said it better in the thing I left on your door.” Beneath the blanket, his fingertips have landed on an interesting ridge on Donatello's carapace. He absently traces a path along the sharp edge as he admits, “I never know the right thing to say… or when to shut up, apparently. But I’m here."

The purple banded genius listened in silence to his brother’s spiel, carefully weighing each word against the negative thought processes which had begun to run rampant through his mind. He knew that he was in a downward decline of self-depreciating thoughts that were likely to get him spiraling into a panic attack rather quickly if he did not manage to pull himself out of it.

Right now Raphael was his only source of reason to combat the thought patterns which threatened him so he tried desperately to interpret the message that Raph was trying to give him into its most basic elements, trying to find comfort in his brother’s words.

_You are likely not as fucked up as you think that you are._

_You are your very worst critic._

_Letting yourself spiral like this is not doing yourself, or our family, any favors._

_You are not the only one with issues._

Donatello drew in a deep and steadying breath as he heard Raph apologize for the events of the day. He shifted his position enough to no longer be hiding his face in blankets and against his brother, looking up at the red banded shinobi, regardless of the darkness, “Thank you. For this. For everything… I may suck at showing it… but it means a lot and it does help.”

Raphael’s nod can be felt more than seen in the darkness. He grasps for some reply -- ‘you're welcome’ or ‘no problem’ -- but all of these seem grossly inadequate, the words too casual and dismissive of such a heavy and meaningful moment. Like so many other important exchanges before this one, he chokes and winds up saying nothing. Raph hopes that simply being here will be enough.

He knows that Mike and Don have slept together like this in the past, on very bad nights. They don't _know_ that he knows, he's pretty sure. He had broken something once, many years ago -- he doesn't even remember what it was now, but it had seemed important at the time -- important enough to come barging into Don’s room at some crazy hour. There they had been, curled up together, fast asleep, looking far more peaceful than either had been earlier that day. He had backed out of the room quickly, embarrassed and not wishing to disturb them.

He had always assumed this tactile comfort was mostly for Mikey’s benefit, but now he is no longer sure.

Raphael is not, in fact, even slightly tired. The evening has only just begun, and it wasn't a tough workout as far as he was concerned. Unlike Don, he got plenty of rest the previous night. He's not at all used to physical contact with others while he is trying to sleep, not since he was a little kid. He doubts he will be able to drift off like this.

It is comfortable, though - and there is much to think about. He alternates between watching the stars and peeking down at his brother, whom he can just barely make out now that his pupils have fully expanded. He thinks of many things -- potential solutions, potential disasters. He wonders what Mike and Usagi are doing right now. He wonders if Leo’s stupid stone heart spell has worn off yet, and whether or not he feels any remorse. He wonders if the wheels in Don's head are still relentlessly turning. Do they ever stop, even when he is sleeping? Maybe not. Maybe that is partly why he is tormented so often with vivid and terrifying dreams.

Donatello let himself settle into the silence between he and Raphael. Even without any kind of verbal response from his brother he knew that his sentiment was well received and that the red clad shinobi simply did not know what to say. It was often that way when Don opened up and let himself be vulnerable.

It did not bother him, not anymore at least. When he had first begun to open up to Raph the silence had been almost maddening. He had often taken the lack of response as a lack of validation, understanding and caring. But through the use of the communication aides they had come to an understanding on this point and many others. His brother simply was not good with words and needed time to figure out how to say what he felt.

But for now, the comfortable silence and soothing contact was more than enough for Don. He nestled into the blankets and let out a soft sigh. It was the first time in days that his body was able to actually relax and while there was always a slight embarrassment caused by using his brothers as a crutch like this, like he used to do with Mikey and had begun using Raph, the comfort was undeniable.

Soon the purple clad shinobi had drifted into sleep, lulled by the soft and rhythmic rise and fall of Raph’s chest as he breathed as well as the gentle touch of the other shinobi on his shell. It was the first time he had slept since Leonardo and Michelangelo’s departure from their home and he desperately needed it, his body crashing hard the moment that his mind finally relaxed.

Regardless of the comfort he felt as he had given in to sleep, the shinobi’s dreams were tumultuous and full of memories of his past, which were also his future. It was not long before his body tensed against the horrific intrusions to his mind, whimpering pleas leaving his lips, begging his brothers not to die, not to leave him alone in that horrible place.

As Donatello finally falls asleep, Raphael winds up thinking some more about Karai. He figures they will still have to take her out at some point. It’s such an obvious solution that it doesn't make sense not to try it. Karai is central to all of the doom that awaits them in Don’s nightmare world. Without Karai’s dogged loyalty and unfulfilled vow to restore her “father” to power, Ch’rell would most likely remain trapped in his icy prison for the rest of their lives. But every time Raph tries to put his hope behind this straight-forward and attainable plan, doubt rises up to plague him.

What if they do vanquish the heir of Oroko Saki, only to have someone else within the Foot Clan rise up to take her place? Would he or she be an improvement over the power-mad kunoichi Don has seen filling giant video screens and preaching the Shredder’s doctrine in so many of his dark visions? What if the next leader to resume her quest for vengeance and domination was even _worse_ somehow? What if the next in line to lead the Foot was smarter, better funded, or twice as cruel?

Could the future turn out even worse because of their interference? In Don’s visions, they are in their forties when Oroku Karai and the Hamato clan finally destroy one another. Getting the jump on Karai long before she amasses insane amounts of money and power seems like a smart and obvious move. But what if all it does is move up the time-table for their ultimate destruction, and now they will die in their twenties or thirties instead? Raph pictures them being gunned down early by some unknown Foot protégé, some clever fucking asshole they did not even know about who also thirsts for vengeance -- not in the name of the original Shredder, but to avenge Karai herself! Of course some of the local Foot Clan will have even more cause to hate them after the unprovoked assassination of their Jonin.

Staring up at the faint glow of artificial stars, Raphael can picture it all too clearly now. Their pre-emptive strike, meant to prevent the nightmare future, could easily become the new reason for their downfall.

Already she was constantly surrounded by an upper echelon of hand-picked lieutenants. All of them were loyal to the death and extremely skilled -- not just as martial artists, but also in a variety of other ways. Raph had done some solo reconnaissance prior to his injury, and he has noticed that some wear advanced tech while others appear to have mystic ability. Then there are two who worry him in particular, because Karai seems to rely on them as tacticians.

He is trying to remember and memorize their faces when he feels his brother beginning to stir in his arms. The mumbled words are hard to understand, but he can hear the notes of anguish. It is very tempting to rouse his brother then and free him of the nightmare world, but he knows it is better to let Don catch up on badly needed rest.

Instead his arms tighten around Don ever so slightly, and then one large hand cups the back of his olive green head. “I’m here,” he promises in a whisper. “Raph’s gotcha. I ain't going anywhere, I promise.”

Karai beamed down from above him, her wicked smile only accentuated by the vicious, maniacal and cruel laugh that left her lips, the blood of his brothers still readily dripping from the katana in her hand as she towered over him.

He had failed. He had managed to stop Ch'rell, but at what cost? He had lost nearly everyone that he held dear and he knew that even April would not last long in this world when Karai’s legion rose up, seeking vengeance for their fallen leader. His brother’s bodies were not even cold and already the futility of their sacrifice was made abundantly clear.

All that he could do as he froze with the fear of that realization was cling to his brother’s bodies as Karai bore down upon him, a silent scream was caught in his throat as her katana hit home.

Then, as quickly as the horrific visions had appeared around him, those demons faded away. There was warmth and comfort and the gentle voice of his older brother, telling him that he was there and would not leave his side. Tears rolled down his cheeks, staining the cloth of his deep purple bandanna as he clung tighter to Raphael without waking.

The genius shinobi’s breathing began to even as his mind was filled, for the first time in far too long, with visions of he, his brothers, friends and father piled together on the couch, fighting over the last slice of pizza and happily heckling the movie that they had chosen together for their Saturday night, all thoughts of bloodshed and misery temporarily forgotten.

Raphael settles in to wait as long as necessary. There was a time he might not have been capable of this, but his patience has grown with maturity. A few times he wonders if he might be able to carefully slide out from under Donatello without rousing him, but the possibility of disrupting his brother’s badly needed sleep never seems worth the risk. Besides, what if he fell into another nightmare? Soothing Don was surprisingly effective, and he wants to be here if the dark visions return.

Well over an hour later, the turtle has managed to (very slowly and carefully) slide his shell cell free. His right arm remains curled around his sleeping sibling, but with his left he manages to manipulate the phone. He is careful not to let the light from the phone fall directly on his brother, keeping it near his body as he brings it closer to immediately silence it.

 _Should’a done that right away_ , he scolds himself at first, before realizing how stupid that is. _Not that anyone else would call. Maybe Casey or April, but at eleven o'clock in the evening? Nah..._ Even so, he leaves it silenced and even dims the brightness as a further courtesy. After spending so long awake in the near total darkness, the light from the screen seems blinding even at the very dimmest setting.

It will have to do. By this point Raphael is desperate for an easier way to kill the time than tripping himself out about Karai.

He looks at the home screen on his phone. Icons stare back at him, some familiar and others a total mystery. Raph considers the browser button, his left thumb hovering while his fingers support the slight weight of the electronic device. He wishes it were bigger, honestly. He's always worried about breaking the damn thing, though it might be paranoia on his part. These days, Don makes their “field gear” pretty damned durable.

Finally he opens up the note program instead. Having Don cradled near and breathing evenly beneath his arm reminds him of another conversation they had recently when Donnie was teaching him new tricks with his phone. He thinks about the closed notes which he had learned must still exist, tucked away somewhere on the thing’s little hard drive or whatever. He had not just closed the note after all but shut down the whole program, and he had never pressed save or anything! Raph has always felt a compulsion to destroy his creative works upon completion -- a habit which his proud, pack rat of a father had always despised.

_Apparently there is an auto-save on this thing. Well, Don wrote the code, so it figures._

Raphael considers the menus. Normally he avoids menus, if he can help it. He doesn't feel qualified to muck around in any settings. But now he considers the list of words and decides that LOAD probably might open a note.

It does. There they all are, untitled and numbered. His thumb stabs one of the documents at random, and he winds up opening ‘ **File17.txt** ’

_people call this hood unfriendly_  
_and i think it must be true_  
_we are hardened here_  
_nobody stops to look beyond their business_  
_nobody is casting out eyes like fishing lines trying to see more sadness_  
_nobody can afford more trouble_  
_nobody gotta smile for a stranger_  
_you don't just give that shit away_  
_on these streets you gotta earn it_

He reads it over slowly, remembering when it was written. Everything, from the play of shadows cast over the alley, the summer sun sliding through the rusty bars of the fire escape where he crouched, to his tumultuous frame of mind as sat fuming, until the heat baked into the metal began to seep pleasantly into his thighs and he began to people watch from his hidden perch -- and eventually, to write.

 _Would it be weird_ , he wonders, _doing that kind of writing with some voice-to-text thing?_ Speaking such words aloud, Raph can see himself feeling a whole lot more self-conscious.

He spends some time after that, going through his old notes one after the other -- and for once, deleting none of them.

He could not really tell how long it was that he had been asleep, but it was quite obvious to him the very moment that he regained consciousness that Raphael had not moved from the spot he had settled into earlier. Donatello thought long and hard about remaining still and letting his brother believe him to still be sleeping in order to maintain this physical contact which he had so desperately needed since Leonardo and Michelangelo had left them.

But now that he was rested his old insecurities about physical proximity seemed to be a lot more active than they were a few hours ago and he slowly lifted himself off of his brother, grabbing his thick framed glasses and water bottle off of the small end table next to his bed. He glanced over at Raph after taking a small drink from the water and asked in an embarrassed and apologetic voice, “How long have you been stuck in here?”

“Dunno,” Raph admits truthfully with a one-shouldered shrug, casual and untroubled by any of the embarrassment Don seems to be feeling. He shuts his phone with a flick of his wrist -- the gesture not as mindless as it might have been with his right hand, but still pretty smooth -- and slides it back into the holster on his belt.

He hasn’t moved from where he reclines on Don’s unexpectedly comfy bed, other than to tuck his good hand behind his head. The turtle regards his anxious brother for a moment before he adds a lazy afterthought, with a brief grin and a twinkle in his eye. “Could’a been a dickwad, dumped you on your ass and got up to watch TV or somethin’. Guess that would’a been truer to form.”

Donatello gave a half hearted chuckle at the playful but self deprecating statement that came from his older brother. The genius lifted a hand up to subconsciously straighten the long tails of his mask and quietly responded, “No, it really wouldn’t be.” He glanced up at the other shinobi, his crimson eyes meeting the soft green of his brother and adding, “I do not think that you would ever dump any of us on our ass if we needed you. Not even back in the day when you were the hot head of the family.”

His words were spoken with genuine sincerity. Raphael may have a rough and tough exterior, but truthfully the red clad ninja had a heart of gold. Don believed with every fiber of his being that Raph would give anything and everything for his brothers, no matter the cost to him.

The purple banded turtle cleared his throat to try to dispel the awkwardness that he felt at having, once again, been so open with his brother - an awkwardness that he realized may very well only be felt on his end of this conversation. He lowered his eyes to the thin plastic bottle in his hands, watching it dutifully as he compulsively twisted the cap off and back on again, mumbling under his breath, “But thank you for staying.”

The cheeky grin slides off Raph’s face as the other turtle goes on to analyze and address his comment in a very serious and heartfelt manner -- more so than he had been prepared for. He drops his eyes and pushes himself into an upright position. Though he is gazing down at the purple quilt, it is obvious that he is listening intently. “You bet. Uh… anytime,” he promises in a mumble.

Okay, so maybe that awkwardness is now a shared situation. He knuckles briefly at his suddenly stinging eyes and laughs it off with, “Geez, Don... You really need to dust in here or something.” Oh yes. Dust is definitely the culprit here. Don’t question it.

Raphael doesn’t know how to come right out and say so, but he is so relieved. They will recover.

Maybe it's the recent blow-up with Leonardo (once so commonplace, but not lately!), or all the heavy shit Don confessed earlier this weekend (snatches of that haunted conversation have been spinning in his head ever since), or even that he was unable to prevent the ugly way that Mike was thrown out of their home (not that he and Mike were on very close terms even before he left for training)... Surely it's a combination of all of these. But right now, more than anything, Raph needs to know that his relationship with all three brothers is not completely fucked.

“You feeling any better?” he wonders as he shoves off the bed and gets to his feet. His injury, the weight of his shell, and the squishy nature of Don’s mattress combine to make this a less graceful maneuver than usual, but he manages. “Looks like you got some of your color back, anyway…”

Raphael stretches his shoulders as he starts to offer, “I’m gonna go nuke some hot pockets r’somethin, if you wanna…” Shit! Did he really just bring up the Food Issue, again?! So soon after they reconciled over that very thing? “Or, not! I was... just bein’...” _An idiot. The world's biggest, seriously_.

He coughs a short laugh that is completely self-directed, full of disbelief and giving up on himself as utterly hopeless. “You know what? Nevermind! In fact, stay the hell away from my hot pockets. Cuz they are pizza flavored and delicious, and they are mine.”

Donatello had remained seated on his bed as his older brother had clumsily lifted himself off of the memory foam mattress, the density of which often proved to be difficult for even the most skilled of shinobi to pry themselves from - let alone a ninja with an injury to his hand. The sight of the awkward ascent brought a small smile tugging at the edge of his lip, a smile which almost immediately faded when Raphael brought up the idea of eating once again.

The change in demeanour was not nearly the same kind of angry response that he had given his brother earlier, because it was not derived from the same emotions. Raphael had not commanded that he eat - he had simply offered. There was truly nothing offensive about that. Rather - Donatello seemed to pale a bit at the mention of the food because it simply made his gut wrench to think about putting anything onto his still upset stomach.

“It’s okay,” he assured his brother softly, “I am not really hungry though. I still feel a little nauseous…” After a moment he gave a soft chuckle and added, “But when I do eat, I will stay the hell away from your hot pockets.”

He finally followed Raph’s lead and pushed himself off of the bed, quickly moving to meticulously straighten the thick purple quilt, tucking it under the mattress to keep it secure before turning back to the red banded turtle and gesturing to the door, “I would not say no to a cup of coffee and a smoke though.”

Raphael watches Donnie fuss with his blanket with a feeling somewhere in between fondness and nostalgia. Standard military tuck. It's nice to see that some things never change.

Then Don is gesturing towards the door, and Raph feels a stab of childish alarm. He sort of wanted an excuse to get away, not wanting to be in the vicinity when Don took that piece of paper off his door. But it's cowardly, and he hates to feel that way, so he’s determined to act casual and not let his shyness about the communication aid show outwardly.

He also hates to feel like he is turning into Leo, so he refrains from saying the thought that pops immediately into his head: _Yeah... because coffee is awesome for an upset stomach._ But Don is an adult. Raph is not going to insert himself between Donnie and his favorite vices -- not without an active training session to give him some semblance of authority.

Raphael reaches into the hidden pocket sewn into his belt and takes out the smoke he confiscated from Don earlier. It's a little bit bent from being in his pocket, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He straightens it in his fingers before holding it out to his brother. “I believe this belongs to you? Tell ya what -- I nuke food, you make coffee, and I’ll meet ya in the lab. And whenever you’re feeling up for it, we can head out. I got a little trip planned.”

Donatello reaches out and gingerly takes the bent cigarette that Raph is holding out to him. He immediately remembered that his brother had plucked this very smoke out of his lips while they were training earlier. He was somewhat surprised to see that it had survived its time within Raph’s belt pocket, but the genius had to force a smile at the condition that it was returned to him in.

Logically he knew that the paper being wrinkled and bent did not affect the cigarette in any way, he knew that it would burn just as well as before. But he could not help but feel upset by the deformity in the usually smooth surface of the cylinder.

Not that this was anything that he was even remotely upset with Raph about, rather he just did not know if he could bring himself to actually smoke this particular cigarette.

The purple banded shinobi looked up at his brother with a soft smile and casually replied, “Sounds good.” And the moment that Raph had turned his back on him Donatello dropped the damaged smoke directly into his trash can. He would simply get a fresh one out of his pack in the lab.

He stepped outside the room, shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately the note which was secured to his door with a piece of uneven scotch tape caught his eye. Don took a moment to adjust his glasses, wiping the lenses on the end of his mask tail, but that was really just an excuse to let Raph gain a few paces ahead of him as he plucked the note from his door.

Crimson eyes scanned the document, a soft but impatient clicking sound leaving his mouth as he noted the new violation on the list. But he let it slide, knowing that it was a valid complaint. If he could list that Raph was eating cereal too violently or pointing at him too much, Raph could certainly bitch that he was taking insomnia to an unhealthy point.

He flipped the note around, quickly deciphering Raph’s untidy scrawl. A small smile tugged at his lips as realization dawned on him that Raphael was having just as hard of a time as he was, he was simply expressing it differently. And after everything that he had put his brother through this weekend, letting him simply “stop being leader” for a little while was the very least he could do.

Donatello turned on his heel and quickly made a pit stop in his lab, throwing open his desk drawer where a manila envelope of very similar (but ever evolving) communication aides rested. He stowed this one on the top of the stack and went to join Raphael in the kitchen, hoping that with the new found understanding he would still be able to turn this day around.

When he reached the kitchen Raph was already focused on his task - perhaps a bit more focused than he needed to be to simply nuke some hot pockets - but the perceptive shinobi understood that Raphael was always a bit bashful for a little while after the discovery of one of the aides. He did not want to make the air more awkward than it needed to be, but also wanted it to be known that he had read the note. So, after a moment or two of thought as he started the coffee pot he cleared his throat and asked, “So where is this safe spot?”

The hot pockets don’t actually need to be watched in order to cook, unfortunately. Raphael tears his eyes away from the hypnotic spin of the microwave tray, putting his shell to it and looking at his brother. “Shitty part of town, like all my hideouts. This one's in Harlem. But I’ve had it for ages... longer than all the others. Like I said, it’s real safe.”

Raph drops his eyes and shrugs. “Guess you could say it’s been my Fortress of Solitude.”

He glances back over his shoulder to check the timer. Forty-five seconds left.

Donatello knew that things were still tense and that Raphael was likely far more freaked out than he was letting on, but was content to let his brother pretend as though he was unbothered by the events of the morning. The genius terrapin pulled his favorite oversized mug from the cupboard above the old percolating coffee pot and set it on the counter while his drink finished brewing.

Turning back to his brother, he mimicked the older shinobi’s position, leaning against the country behind him, “It does not surprise me in the slightest that you have a little hiding spot in Harlem. But I think it is a good thing. Everyone needs their Fortress of Solitude.”

His sentiment was genuine. Donatello was unsure that he would have been able to cope with growing up around his family had he not had a little place to call his own… but recently that same safe space that he once treasured had become a grim reminder of how alone he felt, how isolated and estranged from his family he had become. No longer was his lab a place of creativity, exploration and rejuvenation, but rather it was where he retreated to indulge in maladaptive coping skills, vices and disassociation.

He physically shook his head to dispel the train of thought and looked up to Raph with a gap toothed grin that was forced onto his features. As the microwave dinged, he added in an equally forced optimistic tone, “It will be nice to get out of here for a night, anyway.”

“Hell yeah, it will,” Raphael grumps as he turns toward the microwave to deal with dinner, though he keeps one shoulder angled in Don's direction since most of his focus is still on their conversation. “I don't think I can handle another night glued to the couch, changin’ ice packs and surfin’ Netflix.”

The pair of hot pockets have exploded on one end, as they always do. Now he wishes he would have remembered to put them on a plate beforehand. He sets out a cheap ceramic plate from one of the overhead cupboards and gingerly tosses the food onto it one at a time, still in the crisping pockets. He briefly eyes the puddle of cheese left behind, wet and oozing in the middle, burnt crisp at the edges, and starts to shut the microwave door as he lazily tells himself: _Leo will take care of it._

But… _no_. Actually, he won’t! Raph flushes and opens the microwave door wider. He gets a ratty sponge from the edge of the sink and wets it, then goes about mostly scrubbing away the mess.

It's not perfect. Perfection probably would have required some kind of soap or bleach cleaning spray or something, but that never occurs to Raph. It's still more effort than he would normally display, if only because he doesn't want to compel his _other_ fastidious brother to nag or clean up after him. He tosses the sponge back into the sink basin when he's done with it -- rimshot, even left handed.

“So…” Raph drawls, eyeing his dinner but pointedly leaving it alone. Clearly he is wise enough not to bite into it right away. By now they feel only slightly warm to the touch on the outside, but might as well be molten lava in the center. Such is the way of hot pockets. “It occurred to me. We, uh, probably shouldn't get shit-faced while your stomach is still all fucked up.”

He puts his back against the counter again, his shell hitting the hard surface with a soft clack. “But I ain't really feeling sobriety tonight either. So... I was thinking we could bust into that treasure chest in Leo’s room. Help ourselves to whatever he might’a confiscated.”

Raphael gives Don a surreptitious glance, watching his brother’s reaction to this suggestion.

Donatello remained positioned against the counter, listening to the familiar bubbling sound of the percolator behind him, but his eyes were trained on Raph as he went about his business grabbing a plate from the cupboard and removing his food from the microwave.

What his brother did next was truly horrifying to the young genius. Raphael picked up the rag which, he could only assume, the other shinobi had used to wash dishes the previous day and wiped up the mess from within the small appliance. The purple clad shinobi could almost see the bacteria on that washcloth spreading to every surface that it touched and had he not felt nauseous beforehand, he most certainly would now. He did not make mention of the abhorrent act to his brother, but rather resigned himself to add ‘sterilize the entire fucking kitchen and throw away that rag’ to his mental ‘to do’ list.

When Raph turned back towards him, Donatello was still looking at the rag in the sink, subconsciously scrutinizing the cloth as though it had personally insulted him. It was not until the suggestion that was tossed his way sank in that he lifted his russet gaze from the disgusting display in his kitchen sink.

“Hold on,” he said with a mischievous and disbelieving grin, “You are not only suggesting that we abandon our posts to go play in Harlem and get fucked up, but ALSO breaking into Leo’s personal quarters, into his belongings and _stealing_ from him?”

Don turned and poured some of the coffee which had finally finished brewing into his chipped ceramic mug and added with an amused chuckle, “And here I was under the impression that you had become the good boy of the family. I guess that even I am wrong sometimes.”

He turned back to his brother with an incredibly smug smirk, “Not often, mind you. But sometimes.” Donatello took a large gulp of the steaming java, not minding in the slightest the burn that accompanied it, and finally added after he lowered his glass, “Fine. I am game. Not like there is much that Lame-o-nardo can do about it anyway.”

“Assuming he even gives a shit,” Raphael growls darkly. “He won’t, if he's doing that goddamn ‘stone heart’ spell of his...” The vague scowl he was giving the linoleum deepens as he confesses, “I hate it when he does that spell. So fuckin’ much. Can you believe, he whipped that shit out on me _mid conversation_ the last time we spoke?”

He pushes off the counter restlessly, getting out a tall glass and filling it with tap water from the sink. The glass has water spots, as do many of the others up there, because it was Raph’s turn to do dishes, and he doesn't see the point of drying glasses before putting them in cupboards when the air will eventually do it for him.

“So, yeah. I been good lately. Thanks for noticin’!” Raph hefts his glass in a mock toast. “I been real fuckin' good, and he's still gonna pull that shit? What, he can't stand to feel around me now? Well, guess what? I am long overdue for a fuck-what-Leo-wants kinda night.”

He knocks back half the water in a single chug before setting the glass down again. Large as their mouths are, and as health conscious as he is lately, Raphael doesn't have any trouble getting his eight full glasses a day.

Donatello gave a small sound of agreement before lifting his glass once again and draining his coffee much the same way that Raphael had just downed the majority of his water. He turned back to the coffee pot, refilling the glass.

He could not say that he truly blamed Leonardo for the use of his magic to shield his heart from emotion. If he had any real talent with that shinobi hocus pocus then he was sure that he would be doing the same thing. And in a way he had been doing it, to a certain extent, though the stone heart spell seemed to be far more effective than the drugs that he was consistently pumping into his body.

He turned back to his brother, the fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hands and a small smile tugging at his lips. With a chuckle he responded to Raphael’s blatant sarcasm with, “You’re welcome.” After a much more conservative drink of coffee he added, “And I do think that you have earned a bit of rebellion.”

“It ain't like I'm really _stealing_ from him, if you think about it. I dunno if you have much personal experience with it or whatever, you sneaky motherfucker…” Raphael cants a grin in Donatello's direction here, to make plain his appreciation. “But that box I'm talkin’ about is his evidence locker. Which means it's mostly full of shit he ganked from me and Mike, for whatever reason. There is a really sweet knife of mine in there, and I want it back!”

Raphael picks up one of his hot pockets and tears into it with enthusiasm. It's still too hot in the middle, and he winds up puffing his cheeks in a semi-ludicrous attempt to blow air into his own mouth to cool the molten contents of his dinner.

He swallows with some difficulty before adding, “Maybe you got some ideas about how to take the box apart. Otherwise I'm just gonna fuck up the lock with a sledge hammer or some shit.”

The purple banded shinobi gave a shrug but he had a grin to match Raphael’s which he hid by finishing off the coffee in his mug. After his brother bit into the Hot Pocket to disastrous results and finished his thought, Donatello replied with a soft chuckle, “I cannot say that I have had much experience with having my things confiscated. Not since sensei would take away my books at night when we were kids, that is.”

Then the genius terrapin set his now empty coffee cup down on the counter, letting the drink settle on his still upset stomach before thinking about pouring another. He flashed his brother an almost offended look, “Who is it that you think is your partner in crime here? I doubt that Leo has anything more sophisticated than a simple tumbler lock on that thing. I can pick those in my sleep. The day that I cannot get past something so primitive is the day that I turn in my ninja card.”

Raphael’s temper had been on the rise just from thinking about his recent blow up with Leo, but this last bit of snark from Donatello effectively diffuses him. He seems surprised at the laugh that escapes his mouth without permission, clipping it short out of sheer stoic habit and looking over at Don. “Hey, I can pick locks too!” he insists, gruffly incredulous.

No, he can't.

Which is to say, _of course_ he can, because Splinter demanded they all learn this very basic and essential ninja skill. But mostly nobody in the Hamato clan asks him to, because he takes _for-goddamned-ever_ compared to the rest of them. To someone as extremely proficient as Donatello, he must be truly painful to watch. But he's the go-to turtle if they need someone to kick the motherfucking door in, cannonball through a window, or maybe just rip out hinges with his bare hands.

Raphael is mostly too impatient and self-conscious lately to pick locks in front of his brothers, and rarely bothers except during something like a B&E grocery run where senseless destruction of property is off the table for moral reasons. He’s actually become quite a bit worse at it these past few years -- not just from lack of practice, but because his fine motor skills have somewhat deteriorated. Raph has actually been hoping no one noticed.

“I mean, ya got mad skills and should totally use them. Specially with my wrist busted. I'm just sayin, y’know, _sometimes_ sledge hammers can be... whatchacallit.” The red-masked turtle uses the steaming hot pocket to make a circular gestures at Don, which is usually his cue that his smarter brother can jump in any time with his huge vocabulary and skills of deduction. But then the word he was looking for suddenly pops into his unreliable brain, and he blurts triumphantly, “Cathartic!"

"God, but could you imagine if we really did have ninja ID badges, or business cards or some shit? What would they even say? Like... okay, yours would have to have really tiny font to be able to fit all the shit that you do for us Or some kind of microchip that you could scan to read all the data or whatever. And mine would just be like… Raph Hamato: Unstealthy Ninja. Professional Asskicker. Antihero.” He’s sort of laughing again, low key and under the breath as he concludes, “Protectin’ the innocent, callin’ your bullshit, and makin’ melodramatic exits since 2003.”

Donatello chuckled a bit and brought one large green hand up to his chin which he scratched thoughtfully for a few moments, pondering what it was that his ninjitsu business card would say. He finally settled on something, holding a single finger in the air and giving an enthusiastic, “Ah-ha!” He grinned widely, then waved his hand before him with dramatic flourish.

“Donatello - Does Machines and about a million other things! - Explosions? Covert Operations? Unlicensed and Unorthodox surgeries? Need someone bludgeoned with a stick!? Whatever the occasion for the midnight hour, Donnie does it!”

The purple clad genius dropped his hand and laughed far harder than he should have at his own joke, a habit he had never been able to break himself of on account of the fact that he thought he was pretty hilarious. After a few moments he wiped the slightest bit of moisture from beneath his thick framed glasses with his index finger, taking a deep and steadying breath.

“Heh-heh-heh. That one is almost as good as my other business card.” he brought his hand down to his belt pouch, pulling out a small card which he extended to Raph. The card was thick and white, a purple Hamato crest emblazoned on the front. In a delicate cursive font the words “Donatello Hamato” were printed across their Mon. In much smaller letters the phrase “Your friendly Technical Support Professional” as well as his personal extention went across the bottom of the card. At first glance the card seemed completely professional.

The back of the card, however, was a much different story. In bold letters it read:

“ _I do not get paid enough to deal with your bullshit. Before you pick up that phone make sure the fucking thing is plugged in, turned on and restart the fucking system at least once. I have more important shit to do than deal with your incompetent ass. Thank you and have a swell day._ ”

Don chuckled once more, deciding that he was fine to pour another cup of coffee which he proceeded to do and added to his brother, “I, of course, never intend to hand those out. The process of making them was purely-” he gave his brother a playful wink before saying with emphasis on each syllable, “ _cathartic_.”

“Hahaha…” Raph doesn’t bite back his laugh this time. He had pinched the card between the bandaged fingers, but had to set the hot pocket back down in order to flip it around and read the reverse side of the card. Suffice to say, the hostile rant printed on the back met with his approval.

“And yet, you still carry one around…” he points out, flexing his own deductive skills without giving any thought to it. “Almost like ya just _waiting_ for me or Leo or whoever to come bitch and moaning that something’s broke, when really we just gotta plug it back in.”

Raphael waves the cardstock rectangle at Don, mock reproachful as he accuses, “You were so gonna card me! Tell me I'm wrong. That, or ya just takin’ it out whenever you're clocked in and got some lazy asshole on the phone wastin’ your time, like... this guy, _again_? Calling me for more stupid shit? Yeah. Keep it up, motherfucker! One of these days I am gonna send you a sternly worded business card.”

He passes it back to Don with a grin. By now the hot pockets are cool enough to eat, and he polishes one off quickly. He's always had the bad habit of inhaling his food. It is something Leo hates because of manners or concern for his digestive health or some shit, while Mike hates it because he never seems to savor or even appreciate food that was so lovingly prepared for him. But, neither of them are here - and Don is in no position to lecture anyone about healthy eating practices lately.

Donatello chuckled along with Raph as the business card was passed back his way along with the accusation of his intentions with said card. As he tucked it back into his belt pouch the genius let out a scoff and a look of mock offense dominated his face.

The voice which he addressed Raphael in was syrup thick with sarcasm and jestful contempt, “You truly think that I would carry around an insulting business card for months in a premeditated plan to spring it upon one of my less than tech savvy brothers after they showed vulnerability and came to me with a plea for help in my area of expertise? I am wounded, Raphael. For shame, dear brother. I would have thought you knew me far better than that.”

The purple banded shinobi sniffed dramatically before picking up his coffee mug and casually heading towards the door, intending to go to his lab for a smoke. He paused at the door frame for a few moments looking back to his brother with a grin, “Honestly, I figured the one I would hand them to would be Mikey… Casey probably would have been a possibility if he and April didn't skip town.”

“Yeah… ‘cept, I don't think that bonehead actually owns too many things that can be rebooted,” Raphael points out, returning the grin. “He even opens cans with one of them old hand crank thingies… heh.” Damn. He misses that loser so much. “I’ll be there in just a sec,” he promises as his brother leaves.

The red-banded turtle drains the rest of the tap water in his cup and leaves it in the sink for _somebody_ _else_ to wash. Not his turn, sucka! Then he throws away the pair of greasy crisping sleeves and collects his second hot pocket, finishing it on his way up the stairs.

He starts to grab a mostly full pack of smokes from the pocket of a dark grey hoodie which is lying in a lump on the floor of his room, then changes his mind and shrugs into the jacket. They’ll be heading out soon, and anyway it will give him someplace to stash them while he is carrying the box.

Next stop is Leo’s room. Everything is orderly and minimal, and it's easy to spot the old steamer trunk he is looking for. Some candles have been set atop it, and he sweeps these onto the floor in a flash of lingering insult over his last conversation with Fearless. There is a hesitation as he decides how best to do this with his injured wrist. He notices handles on either side of the chest. Clearly it was meant to be carried by both of them, but he winds up hauling it off the ground by just one of the handles and lugging it back to Don’s lab one-handed. There is a muffled clatter of colliding objects as the contents within are dumped to one side. Hopefully nothing in there is particularly breakable.

He doesn't bother to knock since Don already knows he’s coming. Raph has to set the crate down to get the door open, and uses his shell to bump the door shut behind him. He scans the room for Donatello and moves to deposit the box triumphantly at his brother’s feet. Once again gravity causes the items inside to resettle with a clatter.

Donatello had lifted his hand once as he made his way to the lab, rather than acknowledging Raphael verbally. Once inside his Fortress of Solitude the terrapin flopped into his comfortable office chair, taking a second to flip on his overhead ventilation system before lighting one of his cigarettes. He savored the burn of mentholatum in his throat as he took a particularly deep drag.

Leaning back to look up at the ceiling, the genius allows his mind to wander a bit while he has a few moments to himself.

 _Today has been nothing short of disaster,_ he thinks will a stab of contempt at himself. _You have been careless and reckless, practically flaunting your coping mechanisms and lack of mental composure in Raph’s face._

_After what you have put him through today you definitely owe him this night. He needs it far more than you do._

He was pulled out of his reflection by the sound of the heavy door being forced open and shut as well as the ungodly scraping sound that the trunk made as it was dragged across his floor. He cringed visibly as he thought of the unattractive scuff marks that were no doubt throughout the lair at this point, but as usual the purple clad shinobi did not say anything about it - merely resigned himself to do damage control later - picking up yet another little disaster that Raphael left for him.

He turned his attention to the trunk which now was situated at his feed. As he had guessed the lock on the trunk was beyond simple. It was not even built in. It was just a flimsy little padlock. He rolled his eyes at the lock which should not provide a challenge to even the least skilled of his clan, knowing now that Leonardo was so smug that he relied on the fear of someone crossing him to prevent them from breaking in that he did not even think that he had to upgrade his security. The thought of it made the shinobi furious with his Jonin. He was getting really sick of Leo’s constant fucking power trip.

He pulled out his travel set of lockpicks from the drawer on his desk, balanced his cigarette between his lips and within seconds had removed the lock and tossed it to the other end of the room, grinning triumphantly as it slid across the floor before he even needed to ash his smoke. He gestured to the trunk as he took a drag and said through an exhale of toxic smoke, “After you.”

Raphael is quiet throughout the lockpicking process, knowing silence is required to hear the tumblers falling into place. His brother has it open in no time flat.

_Damn, he really does have a knack for that. Makes it look so easy._

Once Don has finished with a flourish, Raph gets down on his knees in front of the trunk and tugs the lid back. The pungent smell of marijuana hits him as soon as it is open. Almost right away he spots his long lost knife and snatches it up triumphantly. “Ah ha! C’mere, baby…” Still clowning, he gives the flat of the wicked-looking blade a noisy kiss and then holds it out in front of him as he announces, “Daddy missed ya!”

Ignoring whatever snark this display of affection earns, Raphael stuffs the knife into his belt behind one of his sai and surveys the contents of the box. “Whups,” he comments, picking up a simple tea cup of glazed clay -- the biggest piece left of it, anyway. It looks handmade and Japanese, no handle or anything, and he can't imagine it being confiscated from any of them. “Hope that wasn't important,” he comments as he puts it back down, though he doesn't sound terribly repentant.

There is a particularly fat sack of weed in the box -- at least an ounce. Mike must have been rather sore about having that treasure taken away! It's not the only weed in the chest. There are plenty of smaller dime bags, as well as a glass piece and a couple one-hitters, blackened inside with regular use. These things were the goal, of course, but he ignores them for now. There is also a baggie which he completely fails to notice, one which contains four round, green pills stamped with the image of a crown.

There are more items inside which clearly belong to their oldest brother, completely blowing his earlier theory that this box was strictly used as an evidence locker. A few hand-written letters. A couple old toys that should have been discarded years ago. A pair of heavy duty steel cuffs, custom-forged and clearly large enough to fit their oversized wrists.

“Yikes!” Raph can’t help commenting on the restraints. It looks like something you might use to restrain a wild animal. His mind can’t help going kinky places as he looks at them with eyes that have jumped open wider. “D’ya think those belong to Mike or Leo? Wait. Actually, I don't wanna know…”

Raphael doesn't want to investigate these private belongings at close range, or even think too much about them. He wasn’t expecting all this personal crap in here. In spite of his ongoing grudge, it is making him feel the first twinges of guilt.

By now Raph has noticed the inside of the lid. He rocks back on his heels to take in the fact that it has been partially covered in black Japanese characters painted with Leonardo’s elegant brush strokes. The kneeling turtle studies it in silence for several moments before venturing uncertainly, “Uh… what does all that say?”

Donatello watched with his ever present curiosity as Raph opened the trunk to expose whatever goodies might be inside to the both of them. The contents inside are a jumbled mess, something that irritates Don far more than it should - also something that he expects is more to blame on the way that the trunk was carried to his lab rather than how Leonardo likely had these things originally stored. The purple clad shinobi slid off of his office chair, resting on his knee pads as he bent forward to observe the contents along with Raphael.

He keeps his own hands out of the trunk but instead watches as his brother snags his knife out of the mess, rolling his eyes at the dramatic display of affection that the other shinobi bestows upon the inanimate object in his hands. He eyes the other items curiously, the broken grey-ish black tea cup, the weed, pills, pipes, cuffs and letters. He knew that the majority of what was in there definitely was confiscated from their little brother, but his attention was peaked by Leonardo’s personal item within the previously locked chest.

The young genius was debating whether or not he would be chastised for picking up and reading one of the tantalizing letters when Raph pulled his attention to the kanji written on the lid of the chest. Crimson eyes quickly scan it, translating it in a mumbled

“ _The extreme attitude of love is a secret feeling of love._  
_It is like this: I will love to death, with my inner thoughts never revealed;_  
_Let others know it by my death smoke._ ”

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, _there are certainly a few ways that could be interpreted._

His mind briefly wandered to suspicions that he held for quite some time due to a few viruses he had cleared off of the jonin’s computer from some websites he is sure that Leo would never admit to visiting as well as a stash of many pictures of a smiling rabbit on Leo's shell cell that he happened upon while doing upgrades on the tech many years ago.

If his suspicions about this passage were correct it may very well explain why they had seen so little of the ronin recently.

Yet, however upset he may have been with their leader recently, Donatello has no desire to out his brother and thus kept his observations to himself, instead commenting “This is just a passage from Hagakure - one of the books of Bushido. Typically it refers to a samurai putting their Lord and duty above all else - including love. It is better for those a samurai loves to know of it after their life has ended and their vows of loyalty have been fulfilled. I guess this could be referring to his duties as a jonin?”

“Tchh,” Raph huffs his disapproval through his teeth. “Nobody asked him to do that! Nobody wants him to be miserable. That ain't part of the job description. If he _was_ talkin’ to a girl, I’d be be nothin’ but happy for him! Unless…”

He shuts his eyes and groans toward the ceiling. “Nngh... you don't think he could still be hung up _Karai_ , do ya? Because that would -- well, complicate my plans. But not change ‘em, necessarily. Maybe move up the time-table? Christ...”

Raphael pulls a smoke out from the pack in his pocket and uses a matchbook to light it while his thoughts turn over the implications. If this passage written on the inside of the chest IS about Karai, he can't say he disagrees with the sentiment. She probably _should_ be given up for the sake of the clan.

He gets up and stalks over to the trash to throw out the spent match, but all the while wheels are turning in the turtle’s mind. If he takes matters into his own hands -- if he takes out Karai even knowing that Leo might be in love with her -- will their brother be able to forgive him? Could a permanent wedge be driven between he and Leo after all, in spite of all Donatello's efforts to prevent it?

The thought of Leonardo still being hung up on Karai had not even dawned on the young genius until his brother had stated it. After everything that their family had been through as the hands of The Foot he seriously doubted that it was true… But it did remain a possibility.

“No.” the answer was definitive, a knee jerk reaction to all that Raph had said. For a few moments afterward he remained silent, shaking his head soberly. When he some again his voice was quiet and he continued on, trying to comfort himself as well as his brother. “No. He couldn't be. Not after the Hell that she and The Foot put us through... Not after Splinter.”

Donatello took a long drag from his smoke, exhaling with a sigh. A shadow crossed his face as he set his jaw and gazed blankly into the contents of the chest. His voice was harsh, every syllable dripping with venom and malice, “Even if he was in love with her… that bitch needs to die.”

It would be hard for Mike or Leo to hear Donatello talk this way, but lately Raph is getting used to it. They are having trouble letting go of the peaceful idealistic brother who retreated with Splinter into the caves of Northampton and wept for days after taking that first human life. But they’ve all had to grow up a lot since those days.

He moves back to Donatello's side, dropping to crouch next to him. “Word,” he agrees around the filter of his smoke, sticking his unbandaged fist out to bump knuckles with his brother. He glances over to briefly lock their eyes, bobbing his head once and promising, “We’ll do whatever it takes. I'm with ya.”

Donatello’s gaze shifted over as Raph took the new spot directly by his side. He eyes the fist that was extended toward him for a few moments, letting his brother’s vow sink in and meeting Raphael’s pale emerald gaze before lifting his own fist and softly bumping it against the other turtle’s. He let it rest there for a second or two before pulling away, opening his hand and making a soft exploding sound out of the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks.” he mumbled, knowing that his brother's willingness to stand beside him on what could likely be a suicide mission was not something that he could take lightly. Whether he wanted it or not - Raph was in this with him. Until the very end.

Don reached into the chest in front of them, pulling out the large sack of weed and handed it to Raphael. He chose it not because it was the largest but rather because it looked the freshest. He also picked up the pipe, a small glass piece which was, unsurprisingly a garish shade of orange. He inspected the paraphernalia by holding it to the light and scrutinizing it with his crimson stare. It was absolutely filthy, coated with resin and Darwin knows what else. He looked over to his partner in crime and clicked his tongue in an irritated manner before stating, “I am going to sterilize this before we go. We have no idea what all Mikey smoked out of it or what contamination may have occurred in this chest.”

Raphael senses that it might be faster -- or at least wiser -- just to let Donatello do his fussy, germaphobe thing rather than argue the point or give him any shit about it. He just drops onto his ass and goes along with it. He’d had to switch to smoking with his injured hand in order to accept the ounce of pot, and pauses to takes a drag with it pinched awkwardly between gauze-cinched fingers. Smoke billows from his mouth as he wonders, “Heh, ya think he’s smokin’ pop rocks in there?” A gruff laugh follows. “Shit! I said it as a joke, but now I can almost picture it. Mike locked in his room, getting real fuckin’ baked and decidin’ that might be a good idea…”

The muscular turtle grins ruefully and shakes his head as if to clear away the vivid image. “Yeah, sterilize away. Whatever you think is best, man. Honestly, dunno the first thing about this stuff...” He turns the bag over in his hand, going quiet as he studies the contents.

The clumped green buds are covered with orange hairs. Once he notices this, Raph can't help wondering if they're _supposed_ to be there. He’s come across weed before, of course -- mostly as he was rifling through the belongings of defeated thugs -- but he never gave it more than a cursory glance. It occurs to Raph that maybe this is some funky type of orange weed Mike requested specifically for that reason. _The color red will always have a special place in my heart, but -- geezus, kid. That's takin’ it to the extreme._

Donatello quickly stood and moved to his desk where he set the glass down before moving about his lab to collect various items which he needed for his latest project - his Bunsen Burner, a small metal container of water, isopropyl and cotton swabs.

He say down at his desk, turning some music on at a low volume before getting into work mode. The turtle pulled off his thick frame glasses which he folded and set on his desk, tugged his purple mask off - letting it hang around his neck and strapped on his high tech work goggles before he turned his full attention to the task in front of him.

The whole ordeal took a total of thirty-five minutes, twenty-three cotton swabs, eight point six seven fluid ounces of isopropyl and seven cigarettes to accomplish. But when Donatello finally broke his long silence, pulling his goggles down, letting them join his mask and leaving him bare faced, the pipe looked as if it were brand new. He grinned widely and let out a triumphant “Ta-Da!” and held the pipe out in his palm.

Raphael spent the first five minutes or so merely observing in suspended disbelief, caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance as even more supplies come out -- the sheer lengths Don is going to in order to purify this goofy little pipe of Mike’s is astounding to him. _Like maybe it's been drenched in some kind of toxic radiation or mutagen or somethin’_... It all seems so unnecessary to him. Like any of this bullshit Don is doing to the pipe will cleanse what really feels dirty about this. He thinks of his sensei looking down on them from some foggy afterlife… pictures his worry and disapproval to see one son furiously chain smoking and the other holding a giant bag of weed.

He takes to ashing in the largest intact piece of the broken teacup. It's nearer than the petri dishes. Besides, those things are lousy as ash trays. He doesn’t trust the plastic not to melt if he wants to park his smoke. The broken side actually makes for a convenient place to do just that. He spends a few minutes picking out the two other pieces, seeing how they might fit back together. He starts making plans in his head to offer the repaired cup back to Leo as a peace offering. Already he realizes that he doesn't want to stay mad at Leo forever.

Raphael only smokes two cigarettes in the time it takes Don to smoke seven. _So much for faster..._ By the ten minute mark he has settled in for what he knows might be a truly ridiculous wait. At first he wondered if this was a stalling tactic, and maybe Don just needed time to wake up or settle his stomach or gather his nerve or… or _something_!

But as Raph peeks back over at his brother, surrounded by gadgets and chemicals, humming along to his dark-themed techno at times or sticking the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth in an all too familiar picture of pure concentration, he decides this is just something that strange Einstein brain of his has got to do. Now that Don has started, he has to see it not just to completion -- but to utter perfection. It reminds Raph more than a little of Fearless, but he is wise enough to keep this thought -- all thoughts, really -- to himself and let his introverted brother enjoy a moment of peace.

At some point late in the pipe-cleansing process, Raphael has compared all the smaller baggies of weed to the first bag and determined that orange hairs must, in fact, be fairly typical. He’s peeked at Leo’s love letters and realized that they are all in Japanese. Translating them sounds like a pretty big pain in the butt, not to mention an invasion of privacy. He just wants to make sure they are not addressed to or from... _her_. But the letter is signed with the kanji character for… Tiger? He’s pretty sure that one means tiger. Don would know, but he already feels ashamed for snooping. Raphael puts the letters back quickly, vowing not to touch them again. Even so… he is relieved not to have seen her name.

That's when he notices the baggie of weird, bright green pills. He picks them up and turns them over in his hand in surprise. Mike had insisted to Raph that he just smoked weed. Granted, that conversation was… shit. Almost three years ago. He stares at the cheerful color, the little crown stamp, and feels fresh worry slithering in his gut. He stuffs them into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out his shell cell. Stares at the blank box of a search engine before he clumsily stab-types the word ‘green crown pills’ and hits the go arrow. The first page of results give him his answer.

“Huh,” he mutters at his phone. MDMA. That means ecstasy. His pulse quickens as he spots an alarming search result four hits down -- a scary headline that reads, “Green Rolex: Fake ecstasy pills claim TWENTIETH victim”. It's so startling that he nearly calls out to Don, but then the page finishes loading and he sees the pill pictured in the article looks totally different. And the URL is British. So he backs up, tries some of the earlier results, and suddenly -- there it is! A three pointed crown, the same color green, the same crumbly and not-quite professional consistency. He's kind of shocked to have actually found it. Who knew people stored this kind of info on the web? _Well, obviously Don does_ , his brain supplies a moment later.

He reads not one but _multiple_ reviews of the drug in his pocket. _This is nuts_... The reviews are largely favorable. Testing kits were used, results were posted. Some knowledgeable drug user asserts that it is good MDMA cut with 2mg of xanax.

Raph snaps his phone shut in surprise at Donatello’s ‘Ta-da!” and looks up at his brother quickly. The pipe is… he wants to groan when he sees it. The thing is just insanely clean now. Total Marijuana Pipe Makeover, NYC Sewer Edition.

“I think you missed a spot,” he declares wryly, just to be a punk ass.

Donatello’s wide grin almost instantly faded when Raph commented that he had missed a spot while cleaning. He knew that his brother was joking around with him but he was unable to resist the sudden urge to reinspect the pipe. He quickly grabbed his glasses and shoved them back into his face and held the little piece of pale orange glass up to the light, his eyes boring into every tiny facet within it.

After about ten seconds he let his gaze drop back to Raph and flatly replied, “No. No I did not.”

He then put the item into his belt pocket and stood, moving to put away each of the items he had used into their proper places around his lab. He finished off the whole routine with a Clorox wipe for his desk where he had worked.

Don let out a satisfied sigh as he tossed the wipe into his rubbish bin and gave his work station a final visual sweep. The shinobi turned to his brother and said, “Well. I am ready whenever you are.”

Raphael just stands there, giving Donatello a look that is steadily incredulous. "Really? Are you sure, Don? Cuz I was ready _forty goddamn minutes ago_. I can't tell if yer testin' me right now, or ya’ just that oblivious to other people lately. But if you don't give me due credit for a truly remarkable show a’ goodwill and patience back there, I am gonna slug you into next week, I swear ta’ god..."

He doesn't make good on this empty threat, just hauls himself wearily to his feet The weed is stuffed into his pocket, and the now identified plastic baggie of pills. He even takes a moment to empty his pseudo-ashtray into the nearest waste bin in an extra effort to be respectful of Don’s personal space.

“There’s no place to park the lunch box, where we’re goin’,” Raphael informs his brother, like he takes no small amount of macho satisfaction in the fact. “And _I'm_ the one who knows where we're goin’, so you get ta’ ride bitch.”

The genius gave his brother a soft smile and apologized, “I am sorry that I took so long. Once I got started I sort of lost track of time. Thank you for not giving me too much flack for it.”

After his apology Donatello grabbed his leather satchel from its customary hook on his wall slinging it over his shoulder and adding a few extra packs of smokes to its contents before turning on his heel, heading towards the door after Raphael.


	14. Alley Cat Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> author : bushido-bunny (as Kagemaru)  
> In the streets of Sado Island the Aikawa Matsuri is in full swing. Though one attendant has far more than food, drink and making merry on his mind.

Were it not the will of the Tribunal Council, there was no way that he would be performing this menial spying job. It was far below his rank and would have been an insult had anyone else thrown this task his way. However, Kagemaru would not ever dare to disobey a direct order from the council. He knew what grisly fate awaited those who even entertained the notion.

Which brought him to the lantern lined streets of Sado Island, trailing the young shinobi and the flea ridden vagabond who has been given temporary amnesty by his superiors. A fact which did not dull, in the slightest, the wily feline’s desire to sink a shuriken between the hare’s obnoxiously pink eyes.

It was a fantasy that he would have to keep unfulfilled, for now.

Amidst the throng of drunken laggards he barely had to attempt hiding from view, the sheer volume of the crowd did most of the work for him. But he kept ever alert, disguised as an old beggar, slowly shifting through the sea of peasants while never losing track of his targets who had lost themselves in the festival around them.

They were certainly making his job easy. The pair was not even trying to be inconspicuous. Both were intoxicated before they had even made it off the boat. Typical samurai arrogance. Feeling confident enough to let his guard down enough to drink himself stupid even with the knowledge that the Tribunal was watching. It is either that or the both of them are idiotic enough not to think that they are being tailed.

Neither would be surprising.

Kagemaru walked past a stand, swiping a dried squid off of the counter and vanished around a corner before the foolish merchant had even a moment to realize that his wares were missing.

He picked a spot not far from the grassy hill where the pair had settled down… to paint.

Was all of this some kind of joke to the Hamato welp? Did he not understand the razor’s edge he was walking with the Elders? Had he not shown such promise in the magical arts he would be dead already. And yet, he lay on the grass, drunk and laughing merrily while he was no closer to completing his trials than he was when he was made a trespasser in these lands.

It made no difference to him whether the boy passed or failed. But the Jonin of the Neko ninja knew that if any of his clan dared to show such impertinence that they would not live to see the end of their trials. He would have seen to it personally.

And perhaps this boy would not either, given the report that he was preparing to give to the Elders on his behalf.

The macabre thought brought a sharp, toothy grin to his face. He would take great pleasure in putting an end to the boy, dealing a blow to the shinobi clan who had disgraced themselves by welcoming that meddlesome samurai into their midst.

With a sick pleasure in his heart the shinobi master followed the pair as they watched the procession of the parade of idols and made their way to the docks, releasing their lanterns into the night sky. He even dared to close some of the distance between them as his targets purchased yet another bottle of sake.

There was a moment that he thought the turtle had sensed him, the boy had turned in his direction, looking over his shoulder with a furrowed brow. Kagemaru made no effort to hide, however. He merely chuckled to himself when the drunken dolt dismissed him as another festival attendee. Any shinobi worth his skin would have trusted his instinct, but this one actively pushed his aside.

He truly had a hard time believing that this was the boy that the council had said showed such promise. He is inexperienced, reckless and quite frankly, a complete imbecile.

The most interesting part of the entire night was the knowledge that he gained as they left the festival, one - of the boy’s weakness to cold. This was information that he stored in the back of his mind for possible use later. And two - the interaction between the turtle and hare. Physical touch. Laughter. And a few exchanged looks that made his brow raise curiously.

Until there was more evidence to support his sneaking suspicions about the pair he would keep these observations to himself. Kagemaru knew blackmail material when he saw it and intended to wait to use it until he had something to gain. Though he looked forward to imparting this to big brother Hamato.

Perhaps by the end of the boy’s trails he would not be the only one who wanted to see the vagrant’s head on a pike.

He ducked into an alleyway after witnessing the shameful display of two, supposedly, veteran warriors stumbling back to their room after a night of sheer decadence. The cat smiled widely as he withdrew a piece of chalk from his pouch, drawing the magic seal that would transport him to the council where he could deliver his pitiful report.

Things were not looking good for the Hamato. And the boy’s failure brought Kagemaru great joy. Well… - it made the prospect of being forced to tail him for six months seem far more appealing, at least.

Yellow eyes narrowed, adjusting to the blue light as the portal flared to life. With one last devilish grin toward the inn the Neko cast aside his disguise and stepped through the portal which shrunk rapidly behind him, leaving the alley once again cloaked in darkness.


	15. Welcome to the Bat Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would seem that Donatello is not the only brother who has been keeping secrets lately.

Riding on the back of Raph’s motorcycle had never been one of Donatello’s favorite activities. He truly despised the complete lack of control that he felt when it was not him driving the bike, but he had always trusted Raph enough to keep them upright so it was not an arrangement that he refused. Were it either of his other brothers (even before Fearless lost his eyesight) he definitely would have tried to sway them into running the roofs instead. But in this instance he did not even attempt to protest, instead he followed his brother to the garage.

Donatello truly did not mind having to work the manual elevator into the garage on his own due to the injury that he had given Raph. Even this process, which was somewhat slow going with the added weight of his brother, was far better than the arduous hike that they would have to take without the elevator. The only other way into their garage would take them nearly another half mile out of their way while navigating the labyrinthine sewer passages.

When they finally arrived the genius was slightly out of breath, his head spinning for a few moments, but he offered no complaint, instead he quickly went about putting on his gear. Each of the Hamato brothers had motorcycle gear which they had personalized over the years. Donatello chose to make his black leather set unique by adding a surplus of purely aesthetic straps and zippers. A large purple biohazard symbol dominated the back of his jacket as well as the side of his helmet, the whole outfit was pulled together with a pair of ridiculous, gothic combat boots. The get-up used to take Don the longest time to put on, but he had gotten it down to an art - the whole ordeal taking under six minutes beginning to end.

Ridiculous? The word never once crossed Raphael’s mind. He has actually always thought Don looked pretty cool in that gear. Not that he has ever brought himself to admit it out loud. Okay, so the zippers are a bit much, and obviously he doesn’t love purple. But... yeah. He would wear that shit.

But it’s a shame, too -- a shame, because Don probably wore his riding clothes less than any of them. There’s nothing safe about riding a motorcycle; there are almost always more reasonable modes of transportation available. And it’s also a shame because Raph is jealous of those boots. He’s amazed that Don found a pair that look like that, intact and large enough in size to be modified for their freakish feet. His own are worn, far more low-key. He had to forge the steel toes and add them himself. There’s nothing spiked or gothic about them -- they are black and leather but otherwise purely utilitarian. But it’s for the best. He would rather be upstaged by Don, fashion-wise, than accused of sweating somebody else’s style.

The walk to the garage is actually kind of a hike. Mike can make it home in record speed thanks to his skateboarding skills, which are still way sicker than any of theirs. But the way TO the garage involves a lot of going up, and that means taking the elevator.

It's not a _real_ elevator, or at least not a human one powered by electricity with a fancy row of buttons and shitty muzak. No, this is just a large weighted platform attached to cables, where you have to grab a rope and haul your own ass up three and a half stories. Though, it’s actually not as hard as it sounds…

“ _But with a little help from this pulley system_ ,” Raphael remembers a younger and overall happier Donatello explaining to Mikey in a goofy, sing-song voice, “ _Behold! The Magic of Physics_!”

It is low maintenance, functional, discreet, and nearly soundless - unless someone is being a douche and drops the rope just to jolt the other passengers with a sudden crash landing. Raph gets the feeling by now that this improvised contraption has long-since lost its appeal and Don would prefer to see it mechanized. But this would involve a lot of grunt work, getting power conduits and cables drilled through so much solid concrete, and Leo has already vetoed the project as an unnecessary expense.

It's embarrassing that he has to count on Donnie to haul them both up. He hadn't thought about not being able to work the elevator. It makes him realize that he really is trapped down here without his brother’s collaboration, at least until he heals up a bit. Oh, he supposes he could pull himself up with just his off-hand in a pinch… but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

When they make it to the garage, there actually isn’t much for him to adorn. He slides into his pants -- let’s be honest, they are rip-off Nightwatcher’s pants -- dark, sleek, form-fitting. Then his functional asskicker boots. A helmet, some gloves, and -- that’s it! The hoodie he wears is hardly adequate for riding, especially now that the nights have grown so chill. However, the red and black jacket he has favored since his Nightwatcher days was destroyed semi-recently in a brutal confrontation with Hun. The whole back of it was ripped out as he was forced upside-down with his shell dragging along the ground for several blocks. His brothers had needed to rescue _him_ that night. Forced into the role of damsel, the loss of this particular jacket is still not his fondest memory.

Then they are ready to depart. Raph slips onto his precious bike and puts his injured hand on the handle. He looks at it. He tries to grip the handle firmly in spite of the injury, starts the wrist flick that would turn the engine over.

Damn. It’s agony! Pain lances up his whole arm. He winds up hissing, pulling his hand in close to his body and shaking his head.

Next, Raph stashes the helmet temporarily, pinching it between the bike and his plastron as he tries to cross his left hand over -- but it’s so awkward, trying to crank the right handle-bar that way! He gives up almost immediately. This just... isn’t going to work!

“Don’t say it. Not yet. Just… just gimme a second,” he pleads, his good hand lifting to rub at his face. He pulls his hand away and stares at the speedometer for a second or two before sliding off the bike and standing up. “Donatello,” he begins very calmly. “If I told ya where to go...” Raphael’s shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh, resigned and offering… very, very generously offering... ”Would you like to drive Beauty? My… my bike? And if you say one fucking word about what I just called her, if you put one nick on her, if you harm her in any way or even try to address the whole female pronoun thing which is clearly going on here, I will fucking…”

Raphael spreads an unhinged little smile and concludes, “I will _disown_ you as a brother, do you hear me?”

Donatello looked at his brother through the tinted visor of his helmet when he was spoken to, and although his brother was unable to see it, his brow was raised quite curiously at the request. This was not something that he had expected to ever occur.

He had to admit a certain amount of relief, knowing that he would be in control of the motorcycle. He trusted Raph’s driving, this is true. But he trusted his own driving far more. However, the idea of having big, bad, macho Raphael ‘riding bitch’, as his dear brother had so eloquently referred to it, was a thought which very nearly made Don laugh out loud. Nearly.

After taking just a moment to arrange his face into an expression that hopefully hid the smug satisfaction of the younger turtle, he lifted the visor to reveal his face as he nodded to his brother.

“I can certainly drive... _the bike_ …” he replied slowly, emphasizing words playfully to make it clear that he was deliberately avoiding the pronouns as instructed. “I will do my utmost to make sure that no harm comes to _your bike_ while I am in control of it.”

He crossed the room, pausing at his brother's side long enough to pat him on the shoulder, flashing him a grin and adding in an almost playful voice, “Looks like _you_ are riding bitch.”

Before Raph could pummel him for the comment Don quickly swung his leg over ‘Beauty' and brought the engine to life. He looked back at the other shinobi and called over the delicious purr of the engine, “You comin’ or what, Raph?”

“Yeah, yeah… I'm comin’,” Raphael mutters. “Don’t you still need to know where the hell we’re goin’?” He takes out his phone, pulling up his Maps program.

It took some getting used to, but by now he's pretty good at resizing shit using “pinchy fingers”, as Mike called them when he was demonstrating how to zoom in and out of things. Tech lessons from Mike can be annoying as hell -- even after Leo’s return had set them on the road to brotherly recovery, for a while there it had been too intimidating to ask for Don’s help with such trivial things. As a result, he is stuck with words like “pinchy fingers” floating through his brain as he navigates to the right alley in Harlem.

He starts to hand the phone over, then remembers something. He tries that same trick Don showed him before, the one that sends files to other phones. Some kind of error message pops up, and he stabs at the ‘OK’ button to get it out of his face.

Of course, if Raph had _read_ the message, it would have told him that it did transfer the coordinates. Hitting the OK button just confirmed it. But he stuffs the phone back into his pocket and sighs, “Whatever. It’s about six or seven blocks from Central Park, on west 115th.” He puts on his glossy gunmetal grey helmet and climbs onto the back of the bike. His resigned irritation is muffled by the helmet as he suggests, “I’ll tap your shoulder when we get close to the right alley.”

The housing in the area Raph indicated is tightly packed together, and very much a high-density urban residential area. When the brownstones were built, it was a rather nice part of town, and the neighborhood is finally starting to show signs of revival after being in decline for more than two decades. Still, it's not the abandoned warehouse or church tower one might expect Raph to pick for a safe spot. Where on earth could they be going? Is this hide-out underground?

The turtle stuck ‘riding bitch’ finds a natural handhold by gripping the edge of his brother’s shell with his unbandaged hand. The other he hugs around Donnie’s waist since he can't firmly grip with it. It would be really awkward riding behind Don with that bo staff strapped to his back. It gets in the way of where his knee has to go, but Don seems to sense the issue before he has the chance to bring it up himself, pulling it out of the holster and giving it a look (an unreadable look, thanks to the helmet) before tossing it onto the floor of the garage, opting to leave it behind.

“Won't need it, I promise,” Raphael’s rumble is made tinny and distant from the heavy motorcycle helmet. “Here.” Donatello can feel the hand gripping his shell let go, and a rustle of leather against plastron as he roots around out of sight and a moment later the metallic clang and clatter of Raph’s paired sai can be heard hitting the concrete and falling to land near the wooden weapon.

He says nothing after that, just reasserts his grip and gives a jerk of his chin to indicate that they can head out.

Raphael's bike is one fine ride. It is powerful and responsive. Suffice to say, Beauty has only the best installed and has been lovingly maintained and improved upon over the years.

Don was jostled around as Raph climbed on behind him, his bo making it nearly impossible for his brother to situate himself safely and comfortably on the back of the bike. The genius sighed softly, a noise almost completely muted by his helmet as he pulled his weapon off of his back.

The look he had given the stick was one of worry. He hated to be without the weapon which had so many times been his lifeline and savior, but with their positions it would be impossible to bring it along. He supposed that he could get Raph to carry it, but there was no way that his holster would fit around his much larger brother’s shell. Instead he dropped it unceremoniously to the floor, mentally assuring himself that he would be able to make due with the taser in his bag. The little device looked like any other taser to the naked eye, and honestly that is what it had started as. But over the last few years Donatello had upgraded it to the point that this little guy could knock someone as big as Raphael on their ass with one hit.

That and it was never really hard for Donatello to find something that worked just as well as his staff - lead pipes, brooms, branches - whatever. A bo staff was pretty easy to replicate.

He was, however, slightly surprised when Raph called out to him and tossed his sais to the ground as well. Apparently his brother was extremely confident in the safety of his little hiding spot. It was not typical of him to be willing to be separated from his sai. _He probably has girl names for them as well_ , he thought with a chuckle. _Gladys and Gertrude. Yup. That is probably it._

The genius pulled out of the garage, making sure the door was closed and the alarms were armed before the pair disappeared into the night. The streets they drove to get to this ‘secret spot’ were ones that Don was incredibly familiar with and he had no problems weaving in and out of the New York traffic with a precision that could only be matched by the turtle clinging to him. He had been waiting for several blocks for the expected tap on his shoulder and when it came the younger turtle deftly pulled into the alleyway… a dead end.

_What is he playing at? Maybe we took the wrong street…_

“This it?” he asked as he killed the motor. His voice was still muffled, but it was clear enough to be heard over the distant traffic.

Raph’s helmet rocks as he nods in confirmation. This is the place. He gets off and motions for Don to follow with the bike. When the old man first lead him here, he had made it seem like magic. The door had simply opened. But he knows his brother would not appreciate such a ruse. Raphael withdraws an object from his pocket -- a device not unlike a garage door opener -- holding it up for Don to see as his thumb activates it.

The bricks separated, a large section pulling back from the rest of the wall and sliding to the left, rolling on silent guides, leaving a gaping open doorway that leads into a utilitarian hallway illuminated by several fluorescent tubes hanging overhead. There is a closed freight elevator to right with a numeric padlock, and to the left -- a space which appears just about the perfect size to park a single motorcycle. At the end of the short hallway stands a heavy wooden door which can only lead into the first level of the brownstone.

Raph shuts the door behind them, takes off the helmet, and hangs it on one of several empty hooks near the parking spot. The pants come off too, because screw wearing pants, and these are deposited in a heap on the floor beneath the helmet. The gloves shortly follow, but he keeps the hoodie on.

Then the turtle strides forward, slapping his brother’s arm once as he passes. “C’mon,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the door at the end of the hall. “Let's get you some leverage.”

The door opens onto what appears to be a very well appointed brownstone. This place looks like it would be better suited for the west end of Harlem -- the nice part which borders more elite neighborhoods of Manhattan.

From here there is a curved wooden staircase leading up. To the left, a sleek, well appointed kitchen has grown dusty with disuse. And to the right, through an elegant curved entryway... books! Thousands of old, beautiful, well-kept hardbound books. The walls of the library are lined with with them from floor to ceiling.

Donatello watched with curiosity as his brother dismounted the motorcycle and walked casually up to the dirty brick wall at the end of the alleyway. Then Raphael did something that literally made his jaw drop. The brutish turtle brought out the little remote and with a click of a button he revealed the secret door.

_Apparently I am not the only turtle with big secrets these days._

Donatello followed into the small space and backed his brother’s bike into the spot that was indicated, he brought the kickstand down with a flick of his boot before killing the engine and quickly removing his helmet. He could not remember the last time that his curiosity had been peaked as it was now.

The turtle swung his leg from off the bike and placed his helmet on a peg next to Raph's before being clapped on the shoulder and following him down the hallway, not bothering to remove any more of his own gear.

The younger ninja’s head turned this way and that in order to take in as much of the decor as he could but he stopped in his tracks when they came to the library. For a moment or two Donatello felt like Belle from Beauty and the Beast as he stood in awe at the exquisite collection.

Rather than spinning a pirouette as the Disney princess had done, though the temptation was there, the genius slowly walked along one of the walls, gently fingering the spines of the books, taking in the aroma of old paper. After nearly a full minute of silent reverence Donatello turned to Raphael and quietly asked, “... _What is this place, Raph_?”

“Welcome to the home base of the late David Merryweather,” Raphael sighs, spreading his hands to indicate the multi-million dollar property he has lead his brother into. “Paid in full. Owns the whole building. Maintained by… dunno, some local shop. Two janitors, a mechanic/slash electrician dude, and a plumber. The top three floors are rented out. Penthouse dude manages the other two and gets his rent free for dealing with them and leaving Merryweather and… me, I guess… the hell alone. He deposits both rent checks - and this law firm Wilson & Grimes handles all finance and taxes and shit from there. I mostly work with Grimes, when I gotta, through email. Merryweather’s email. From his office, here at the house. He had a notebook in a locked drawer in his office, fulla passwords and shit.”

Raph looks slightly uncomfortable throughout all of this explanation. He stands there in the library, blind to the treasure of books all around -- it might as well be wallpaper. He fidgets with the bandage on his injured hand for a moment before he continues, “It basically -- it does it's thing. Pays for itself without much effort from me. I never come on Tuesday or Friday afternoons, that's when the cleaners come through…”

The explanation trails off lamely and he shrugs. Leo would never let him keep it, if he knew. It was too risky, telling anyone. Too risky... until now, apparently.

“That old man died in my arms,” Raph confesses very quietly. “His final wish was that his family don't find out nothing about his other life. That for so long he was a property owner by day… and a vigilante crime fighter and assassin for hire by night.”

Donatello paused, once again lifting his gaze to take in the room around him as Raphael filled him in about the history of the place. As he learned more about it realization finally hit the rather perceptive turtle, though it happened much later than he would like to admit. The fact that he had never thought to ask Raphael more about how he had gotten his gear all those years ago.

“ _The Nightwatcher_ …” Donatello quietly mused. “I always assumed that you had made the suit… but you got it from _him_ … David Merryweather.”

He began to once again walk the perimeter of the room, this time he took in the titles of books as he passed. There were fiction, nonfiction, biographical, autobiographical, instructional, textbooks, legends and lore… Thousands of books that he had not read… many of which he had never even heard of. If Donatello believed in God, he might have been convinced that he had gone to heaven… or he would have, if the dust covered volumes had not gone obviously untouched.

He turned to Raph with a raised brow as another thing suddenly clicked, “This is where you have been getting the books for my birthday and Christmas...”

For nearly half a decade Donatello had received, for every special occasion, one or more books from Raphael. He had never questioned the quality of the hard bound and pristine books, always assuming that Raph simply had found a source on the streets for them, but now, knowing that the red clad turtle had this plethora of texts at his disposal, he understood far better how he had become the proud owner of so many fascinating volumes.

Donatello suddenly turned on Raph, marching over to his brother and chastising him in a voice that was only half jestful, “You have had this library for YEARS and you never told me about it? I mean, I can get hiding _secrets_ from your family. Believe me. I get it. But this is not playing the stock market or identity theft. _Look at this place_ , Raph!”

At this point the purple banded turtle did actually do a pirouette-like spin, holding his arms out to the books around them. “This is paradise, Raphael. This… This is unacceptable… It’s… It’s like if I had a secret lair of my own full of workout equipment, motorcycles and shelves of aftermarket parts as far as the eye can see… And I just let all of that crap gather dust. Sending it to you one piece at a time twice a year.”

“If it helps,” Raphael sighs, “I always spent a long time trying to pick out good ones.”

He looks at Donatello and finally shakes his head, parting his hands a little, “We still had healing to do, Donnie. I didn’t trust ya yet. I’m sorry! I don’t know how else to put it. But it’s been different lately...”

He walks over to the bookshelf and pulls on the conspicuously vivid red colored spine of a book on one of the shelves at about eye-level. Another false door opens up, and a set of stairs leads down into the basement. Down here is a small workout area, weapon racks and organized materials. Huge spools of black leather, wicking athletic fabrics, bulletproof ballistic fibers. He has enough here to make four or five more crime-fighting suits if he so chose. All the blueprints are here, spelled out in plain English, in David’s old fashioned hand-writing. It would be easy to take it all up again, except… he’s not the Nightwatcher anymore. He’s promised.

Raphael leads his brother down the stairs and immediately crosses the room, moving to face a calendar for the current year. It is tacked up on a wall decorated with that chalkboard paint, and the whole wall is really a mess of mind maps and gathered clues, detective sleuthing and wheel spinning. It’s messy and inelegant, but there is evidence here of murderers, mobster big shots, and other dangerous criminals being tracked. One whole section is clearly dedicated to staking out Karai and the people closest to her. But he ignores all of that and goes to the calendar, plucking a red marker from where it had been suspended with some sticky-backed velcro and starts counting off under his breath as he crosses out days. Once he’s reached the present day, he caps the marker and puts it back. Picks up a stub of chalk from a convenient tray and scrubs off a number next to the calendar.

When he’s finished, he steps away and the wall now reads: **KFC: 112**

One-hundred and twelve days without killing someone. It’s a number to be proud of, but that pride is somewhat diminished this time -- mostly by the fact that he is now actively planning to murder somebody.

Donatello’s jaw had literally dropped as Raph pulled the vivid red book down, exposing it for the lever it was and revealing yet another secret door. He shook his head as the list of wonders in Raph’s “little hiding spot in Harlem” continued to grow.

The genius followed quickly behind his brother, eager to see what was down this staircase. Needless to say, when the room below came into view, he was not disappointed in the slightest. As he took in the complete crime fighting base that Raph had kept secret for so long the only thing Donatello was able to say for several moments was, “What. The. Fuck?”

He stood in the middle of the room, not even moving to check out all the treasures which filled the space quite yet as he was still just in awe of what he was seeing. It was not until Raphael started to tick off days in his calendar that Don took a few tentative steps, gently picking up the blueprints to what looked like a 2.0, 2.5 and 3.0 versions of the Nightwatcher Suit.

A part of him logged away the information that this stack of blueprints existed. The designs were brilliant as they were, but Donatello knew that he could easily tweak the designs to make them even more effective. He officially decided in that moment that this would be his next big project, seeing that having some high tech armor for he and Raph would be a good plan when they go up against The Foot.

He set the papers back down and once again addressed his brother with a voice full of both reverence and mild disbelief, “You… you have a fucking Bat Cave… for all these years I thought that I was the one with the Fortress of Solitude. But… dude… This place puts my lab to shame.”

“No way,” Raphael disagrees, tossing the chalk down into the tray and then moving to stand closer to Don. “Your lab and this place got completely different purposes. The lair makes a WAY better Bat Cave. David thought he had beefy security on this place, right? And I guess he did, for an old white dude. But it’s nowhere near where it would have to be for mutant turtles to live here safe and sound. It’s fine to crash for a couple nights, but too much more than that… there’s still a lot of risk. Plus, the tech in your lab -- compared to _this_ place? Merryweather was an old school dude. He drew those blueprints, made everythin’ by hand. The computer -- by which I mean, the _one_ computer in his whole house? I’m pretty sure it’s older than mine. There’s a landline phone with an honest to god voice mail box, like the kind with cassette tapes inside. Plus, you could never be mucking around much with explosives and chemicals in a residential neighborhood like this. There’s a whole gaggle of kids from this block who are always playin’ games in the alley. Couldn’t pump that shit into the air around here. Angry neighbors complainin’ at best, poisoned kids at worst!”

Raph’s left hand briefly palms the back of his head as he admits, ”A few were playing hide and seek when I first rolled past. I nearly pissed my pants, but -- it was fine. They just thought I was him. They were all, ‘Sup, Mister M!’ You got the dopest bike!’ It’s... uh, kinda adorable. There’s a camera in that alley. Sometimes I just like to watch em… Damn it. That came out creepy. What I mean is -- okay, at first I’m just thinking, these little assholes are constantly swarming my property! They were too close to me. It only made sense to keep an eye on ‘em when they’re hanging out right outside my front door. Am I right?”

Having justified it to both his brother and himself well enough to continue, Raph shakes his head and goes on to confess with genuine fondness, “They’re hilarious, though! They have all these crazy theories... Mister M is a retired spy. Mister M is testin’ super soldier drugs for the government. Mister M is the secret identity of a retired Justice Force dude. One kid named Boo tried to claim that his buddy’s stepdad’s someone or other worked for the government and looked up the files on Mister M and found out he was some kind of hero because he was a hitman overseas for the government and he took out some badass people in Zutenberg who were about to be terrorists and fuck us up with some 9/11 shit. And that’s when Antony jumps in like, ‘Gutenberg start with a G, fool.’ Ant’s scrawny and kind of a know-it-all. You’d like him. Anyway, Boo’s like, ‘Naw, naw! That’s a whole other city. Could be saying it wrong, but it’s a Z up front and there was terrorists!’ And Ant’s just on to him, like, ‘Terrorists? Yeah, from what war? These some world war two terrorists, bout to roll up in some panzer tanks for the next big 9/11?’ I’m telling you... I been in _stitches_ over these goddamn kids.”

The turtle sucks in a breath and blows it out slowly. He realizes that he has completely lost track of whatever point he had been originally trying to make. Raph thinks about it, then makes a giving up gesture and concedes wearily, “Yeah, okay. Look, it’s not like I’m here every day, or every week even! But… yeah. I guess this hideout is a little bit awesome. You ain’t even seen the upstairs bathroom.”

His head was shaking in disbelief as Raphael spoke, he did not really care about what some neighborhood children thought that “Mr. M.” may or may not be up to, but the idea that even the kids around here thought that something was up within the little hiding spot spoke volumes to the fact that David had not been very good at keeping a low profile over the years. It did put a target on the place to say the least.

Donatello began to make active plans within his mind to move some of what Merryweather had left behind into the much safer confines of the lair. But he put the thoughts away to bring up at a later time. It simply would not do to ask Raphael to disrupt his safe haven only minutes after being entrusted with the fact of its existence.

The genius shinobi ran a gloved hand over his face in an attempt to physically wipe away the shock of all that he was seeing before turning to his brother with an exasperated chuckle. “Regardless of safety issues, this place is pretty nifty.”

While he was sure that he could spend hours down here pouring over the documents left behind by the late Mr. Merryweather, Donatello turned and began walking back up the hidden staircase towards the rest of the house, calling over his shoulder, “If this bathtub is big enough for me to comfortably lounge in without my knees sticking out of the water you might not ever get rid of me. Either that or you are going to help me uninstall it and drag it to the lair.”

“What the hell, Donnie,” Raphael gripes without any real heat as he trails behind his brother up the stairs. “Let's just rip all the coolest shit out of your lab and install it wherever the fuck _I_ want, how’d ya like that?”

After a couple of beats he admits, somewhat sheepishly, “It is pretty sweet though. More of a whirlpool than a tub. My guess is the dude had arthritis or some shit…? It probably helped him out to soak in a big fancy tub. That, or he was havin’ crazy hot tub parties up in here... I don't fuckin’ know. But the dude's overflowing medicine cabinet makes me think it was more for, y’know -- old people reasons.”

Raphael resumes the lead once they've reached the top of the stairs, being the one who knows the layout of this place. Though it is actually pretty obvious, this route being the non-hidden staircase in sight upon leaving the exquisite library. It is the only other staircase and the only route that leads up. But he is embracing his role of tour guide none the less.

“Crappy other bedroom nobody uses and a bathroom with a toilet and shower are over there,” he indicates with a brusque wave of his hand towards the less interesting half of the second story. Truly, he would have made a terrible realtor. “I never slept in there. But I use the shower sometimes, mostly just when I gotta… uh, hose off. Mostly cuz I got hurt, or… cuz someone else did. But it’s not gross or anything! The cleaning crew, I guess they’re used to that sorta thing…”

He clears his throat awkwardly and continues down the hall, jerking his chin to indicate that Don should follow. “C’mon. The bathroom on this side is way better.”

Donatello chuckled and made a wide sweeping gesture with his hand as Raph pushed his way past him to lead the way. He turned his head this way and that as they walked, taking in the sights of the house, admiring the artwork which mostly consisted of oil painted landscapes that adorned the walls as he passed.

When they reached the top of the stairs he peaked his head into the “crappy bedroom”, it was modestly decorated but far from crappy as far as he could see. It was far nicer than the majority of human dwellings that he had seen in New York in his lifetime. He quickly ducked back out of the room and jogged to catch up with Raph, commenting casually, “I won't push the issue, but I will gently remind you that I am the team medic and rather non-judgemental. You don't need to come back here to lick your wounds when you get them. It is sort of my job to patch you up.”

“Shiiit…” Raph drawls, “I’m not gonna come crying to you every time I get cut up in battle. Ain't about you judging me, either! It’s about pride, man! Bein’ _self-sufficient._ All of us oughta know enough to patch ourselves up. Never know when we’ll wind up injured with nobody around to help… what if we’re ever, I dunno, stranded in another dimension? Mike better hope he picked up some of that shit.”

The turtle rolls his massive shoulders in a shrug. “Anyway... the scars always come out way more badass when I do the stitches myself!” He says this with a wolfish grin, really just trying to push Don’s buttons. Raph knows damn well that his brother takes pride in having such tidy stitches that the scar tissue is minimal.

“Well, here we are…” He opens the door to the master bedroom, feeling vaguely self-conscious. Here is more wealth for Don to goggle at. Raphael feels a little guilty, knowing this luxury has been completely wasted on him.

And luxury… there’s no other way to describe it. Hardwood floors. Recessed lighting. There is a freaking fireplace in the bedroom, over which hangs a giant flatscreen TV. The decor is tastefully masculine, lots of beiges and browns. A large ceiling fan made of dark, expensive wood hangs motionless overhead. The bed has been made -- and certainly not by Raphael. One can be sure he would never bother to carefully tuck down the corners of linens or fluff throw pillows. He is actually highly annoyed by throw pillows, and has to subdue the urge to thwap them off the bed as he approaches it. “There’s, uh. Alcove thing for _more_ reading. Big closet. TV gets cable. Um.” He stuffs his hands back into the pocket of his hoodie and glances around, looking uncomfortable.

Donatello offered a playful guffaw at the dismissal of his offered assistance. He knew that it was unlikely that his brothers would ever come to him with wounds as trivial as minor cuts and scraped knees from scuffles on the street. While it was true that he was the medical expert in their clan, his job was to prevent their deaths, if he could manage it, not to act as their mommy and kiss their owies better.

This knowledge did not, however, stop his rebuttal, which was delivered in a voice positively dripping with practically palpable sarcasm.

“Let's see how you change your tune about those “badass scars” when one of your hack job attempts at stitching gets infected, Raphael.” He finished the statement with a mild chuckle and a gentle shove as he pushed his way passed his brother in order to enter the far more luxuriously decorated bedroom.

The genius terrapin walked the few paces into the room that it took to reach the fireplace directly opposite the bed. He bent down for a moment or two to admire the simple base relief on the mantle before turning to the bed. He grinned mischievously before pitching himself onto the mattress, effectively disrupting the carefully tucked duvet.

Donatello stretched out, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he settled into the many throw pillows. From his laid back position, the younger Hamato softly proclaimed, “Dibs.”

The red-banded turtle cackles as his brother returns his jibe with a caustic retort and a shove. Raphael has always responded well to rough-and-tumble affection, and it’s rare that he can get Don to lash out physically. Even if it wasn’t a very _hard_ shove, it still feels like a minor accomplishment.

The grin doesn’t last very long, of course. Even his default, most neutral expressions lean towards a slight frown. But in this case, he is just so clearly uncomfortable with the opulence. He looks around again, at bedposts and furniture and built-in bookshelves all custom made from the same dark and glossy, expensive-looking wood, and the fireplace made of carved marble, and all the damn throw pillows… _That is way more pillows than one old man living on his own oughta need._

It all feels awful somehow, sleeping in the lap of luxury -- and here, of all places! In the heart of Harlem, with homeless sleeping in alleys off this very same street. They are keeping the damp off by using trash bags for blankets while he is up here all comfy with his fluffy pillows and his 1200 thread-count sheets. It makes him feel sick sometimes, trying to fall asleep in this bed.

Also, it still fucks with him not to hear the comforting rumble of the subway overhead. Something about the automated regularity of it throughout the night, a dependable lullaby of train rails making distant thunder and sending vibrations through the walls. The subway trains make an earthquake so tiny you would have to be perfectly still and waiting for it in advance to even feel it -- but he always is, so he always does, when he is falling asleep back home in the lair.

Raphael had been facing in another direction for the most part as he scanned the room thinking about all this, but now he turns and looks at his brother squarely for the first time since they both entered the room. He’d been about to share some grumbled rendition of everything he had been pondering -- not the sappy vulnerable stuff about subways, but definitely some form of surly griping about poverty and injustice and who the hell knows what else.

But then he looks over just in time to see Donatello’s ecstatic backwards flop onto the stupid fancy bed, and the silly drunken appreciation he seems to have for ridiculous pillows, and all of the bitching and honesty he’d been about to unleash dies unspoken, swallowed and replaced with a reluctant grin.

Suddenly Raphael cannot bear to spoil the moment for his brother -- not when happiness has been in such short supply for him lately. “Fine by me,” he grunts instead. “More often I wind up on the couch anyway.”

Donatello only appreciated the luxury of the, honestly far too firm, mattress for a few moments. There were still other treasures to be discovered in the little house and he was far too keen to see the bathtub that Raph had mentioned to allow himself to get too comfortable.

With a final, exaggerated stretch he lifted himself off the bed, taking a moment to straighten the blanket before offering his brother a shrug, “Your loss, Raph.”

With that he turned on his heel and made his way to the door which lead into the bathroom just off of the master bedroom. When he walked inside the young genius found his jaw dropping once again, the bathroom in front of him was unlike any that he had ever seen in person.

The design was sleek and clean, blue tile perfectly contrasting the dark wood of the accent wall. And the bathtub. It was honestly fit to be called a Jacuzzi, rather than a bathtub. Large enough to comfortably fit several humans, and deep enough that he would be able to easily submerge his entire body into the water. He looked back at Raph through the doorway and said in a voice of awe, “ _Dude_ … dibs.”

In that backwards glance, Raphael can be seen trailing his brother with that semi-guilty slink he was using earlier on the tour, especially in the library. He stops in the entrance and leans against it, coming to stand with his shoulders hunched and wearing a vaguely hang-dog expression. It is a drastic and potentially comical change from the swaggering bravado of his usual gait.

Because he _knows_. Raphael knows how unreal this place is. How amazing it is. How shitty it is, that he had access to a hideout like this and decided not to share. But he has always been this way. They both have, actually… Ever since they were little kids, it was always Leo and Mikey who wholeheartedly embraced the concept of sharing. They would gladly loan anything they weren’t using to anyone who asked. It was always Donnie and Raph whose natural gut reaction ran more along the lines of _keep your grubby hands off that, it’s mine_.

So yeah, welcome to this multi-million dollar condo disguised as a humble Harlem brownstone which Raphael has been hiding from his family since the year 2007.

Hey, remember all those times Raphael got so ticked off that he was inspired to “quit the team”? Don can probably recall Raph explosively moving out of the lair after a fight on no less than _four separate occasions_ between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one. The first and longest of these incidents must hold particular significance to Don, considering he was in charge at the time, and was actually on the hook for it the whole time Raph was MIA, leaving his phone behind and dropping off the grid completely for three solid weeks. He immediately faced the music after deciding to come home. Got absolutely reamed by Splinter, then reamed all over again by Don (a talk which wasn’t half as scary, but three times as long). All the while, Raphael had kept his temper for the most part and endured it. He took whatever punishment or blame they cared to throw his way. But at the same time, he would never reveal to anyone specifically where he had gone or talk about what he had been up to.

Well, now Donatello should have no problem figuring out the answer to that unsolved mystery from so many years ago. Now maybe he finally grasps that in spite of all the trouble Raph wound up in over these disappearing acts, in spite of the punishment and lectures he had endured -- it had been _worth it_. It had been totally _worth it._

His eyes moved to drink in the sight of this bathroom all over again– a bathroom he is already quite familiar with, this being his favorite room in the house. He is vicariously seeing it anew to some extent just by proximity to Don’s slack-jawed wonder.

It’s not until his brother calls “dibs” again that the grin resurfaces and some of his slithering guilt retreats. Not all of it. There is still a trace of haunted apology lurking in his face and crinkling up the corners of his eyes, even as he gruffly denies, “For keeps? _Nope_. Fuck that. You can have that bed out there. Sleep in it every night for all I care. Raid the big double-doors fridge downstairs, eat anything outta the pantry. Read any book in the library, reorganize ‘em, take em home. Hell, write your name on all the inside covers. That library should’ve been yours, from day one. I know that. And now, it finally is. Okay?”

The sincerity and intensity of what he is saying wiped the smile off Raph’s face for that last bit. But then it pops back into place as he insists, “So if by “dibs”... you mean, right now? You wanna give it a whirl? Go for it. Here’s a cool remote control thing you can play with and everything. Fucking... knock yourself out.” He steps into the room further and one hand casually detaches what had looked like control panel installed in the wall right around the corner of the doorframe initially. He pops it right out of the wall and carries it with him, bringing it closer. But he gives the remote a playful shake in Don’s direction before he’s willing to hand it over, feeling the need to insist, “But make no mistake, brother. That right there is _my_ fucking bathtub.”

Donatello’s maw had split into an amused grin as Raph spoke. He understood the sweet and even sentimental undertones of the things that his brother was saying, but knew better than to openly acknowledge it.

The young genius quickly wiped the smile from his face, folding his arms across his chest and nodding solemnly as Raph made his dominant claim the the whirlpool tub. Crimson eyes flashed upward, following the silver remote, which he gladly took as soon as Raphael legitimately offered it to him.

He does not directly answer Raphael at first, rather he immediately begins pressing buttons on the slim remote, being immediately drawn to a large dial which he quickly learns changes the hue of the ambient overhead lighting. He snickers as he quickly finds the most vibrant shade of purple available.

The younger terrapin then turned his back on his older brother, an act which alone showed defiance, making his way up the stairs to look into the Jacuzzi tub and smiled wryly. “Dibs... _For keeps_. But you are welcome to share with me, big brother. _Every once in awhile_.”

Raphael sighs up at the now purple lighting. “Seriously? Now all we gotta do is install a disco ball up there…”

He laughs and abruptly declares, “You know, I take back what I said before. Bet it didn't matter how old and crusty he was. There was girls who would take one look at this and they were good to go, man. Dude got fucking _laid_ because of this tub… and someday, so am I. And if you got anything to say about that, I will _fight_ you.”

There is no heat in his voice as he decides this. Raph comes to sit on the ledge surrounding the tub as he elaborates, “I mean it. If you try to clean this tub or put any weird sanitary chemicals in there or whatever, if you try to take it apart for any reason, or get crazy ideas about how to _improve_ it… well, you can't. Because this bathtub is already perfection, and it is mine, and I would have to murder you.”

Donatello raises one brow and asks in response to his brother’s tirade, “You would commit fratricide because I tried to clean it? I swear I will not step in the way of you trying to get some, bro. But you seriously need some anger management therapy.” The younger terrapin shakes his head to mask a soft chuckle as he finds the button on the little silver remote which causes steaming water to begin rushing into the circular tub.

“Well, somebody stop the presses,” Raph quips with a smirk, glancing down as he speaks to fiddle with the bandage around his wrist. “We got late-breakin’ news over here, gonna shock the world.”


	16. Rude Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NC 17 Warning

Gradually Michelangelo becomes aware of amazing sensations. He doesn’t know what’s going on yet, but he is suspended in an ocean of warmth, filled with a lazy contentedness. It’s like hiding in bed on a long Saturday morning, a feeling of being perfectly happy to keep his eyes closed and burrow deeper into pillows and blankets, neither awake nor asleep but slipping in and out, dozing on the cusp of oblivion or chasing after half-remembered pleasant dreams.

But it’s not usually so incredibly cozy under a cool-blooded creature’s blankets. Something in here with him is positively radiating warmth. It’s like the hot water bottles Splinter had tirelessly changed out during the coldest winter nights when they were still small enough to pile up in a single nest. And before he is even having any conscious thoughts about it, Mike is snuggling closer, trying to wrap his body around it. He was the littlest one, so the others would nudge him in first and pile on or around him. Snuggling the warm thing was his birthright.

Mike wriggles closer. It’s fluffy and warm and so unexpectedly nice that he impulsively slides on top of it.

The turtle is fuzzily delighted to feel the hard contours of a man’s body beneath a plush veneer of silky fur and makes an involuntary _mmmmnnn_ sound deep in his throat. He presses more of his weight down and slides around, and winds up nosing at Usagi’s neck with his beak, and then teasing a cloud of fur with the edges of his mouth.

The vibrations from the muffled sound that escaped Michelangelo's lips as he nuzzles into the ronin’s neck brings a soft groan that fills the air between the shinobi and the rabbit pinned beneath him. Blankets are caught in battle worn paws which clench at the teasing of Mikey’s mouth, the rabbit pressing more firmly against the turtle as his back is arched upward slightly.

Soft and groggy purrs of sleepy contentment rumble through the barely conscious ronin, sending subtle vibrations through the plastron of the turtle above him as fur covered hands snake upward along Michelangelo's well toned arms until the calloused pads of Usagi's fingers press into the shinobi’s shoulders with just the slightest bite of claw.

 _Oh, man. Oh, wow._ Even in total darkness, Mike is able to recognize the cheek floofs he is nuzzling. It’s a pleasant jolt, and not enough to really get him rationally _thinking_ about any of this. He’s just got a thing for floofs, apparently, and now he’s happy to confirm that these are, in fact, the _best_ floofs. My god, it's _him_. This is happening. Who the fuck cares how or why?

 _Those claws_... The turtle recognizes those, too. He got to study them up close that very first morning together, when he was bandaging Usagi's knuckles. Mike can picture them exactly, curved and black, kind of exotic. He never thought before about how they might feel dragging hard on his shoulders. Splayed over his throat. His next breath has gone ragged.

His tail was already hard and full, as it generally is early in the morning. So it really does not take too much more of this intense stimulation before he starts wondering what that soft silky fur will feel like against the hyper-sensitive, softly scaled underside of his tail. He nuzzles under the ronin’s jaw and then slides up a bit, just enough to set his tail against the ronin’s fur. His white coat is shorter and more velvety there, and it feels amazing. He rocks back again, presses his freckled face against the rabbit’s chest and groans.

The ronin’s head tilts back slightly as Michelangelo presses his face into the thick fur on the his throat, the purrs that the shinobi was drawing out of him grew louder, their vibrations more noticeable. The fog of sleep was still thick, rationality not quite settled in, but the intimate attention was beginning to rouse Usagi.

When Michelangelo had settled onto his chest, greedily stealing his body heat beneath the shabby blanket they share the turtle is able to immediately feel the hare’s body tense slightly, the grip of his claws loosening just a bit.

He makes no attempt to move from his submissive position, merely clears his throat awkwardly, the sound a sharp contrast from the pleased moans he had given before.

Mike peeks up from the pristine snowy landscape of Usagi’s gorgeous abs, having frozen in place. His blue eyes search the darkness for Usagi’s face. Apprehension fills his eyes and goes to war with the gleam of lust that had already been there. He’s already dropped, just a moment ago, pressing a snarl of satisfaction into that fluffy chest hair, and now… now it might stop here. Now they might have to come to their senses.

But he wants. He _wants_. Wants all of this.

Michelangelo slides back up the ronin’s body, feels his way until he knows they are face to face. His breath is rough and panting, stirring floof and causing whiskers to twitch. “Usagi,” he rasps, “I didn’t mean to. I just woke up, and -- I didn’t know. We were already--” He’d been keeping most of his weight on his hands and knees, but now he rocks against the pinned rabbit again, the nudge of his thighs-- and something else -- gentle but insistent. Making known his ongoing willingness. “Like this,” he huffs, unable to help himself and grinding again.

“Truth is, dude... I have been _hardcore_ into you. Like, ever since this started.”

The ronin’s eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights, the amaranth orbs visible even in the limited light. Bucked teeth nervously chew on his lower lip as the shinobi explains himself, his chest rising and falling somewhat more rapidly than usual. Usagi opens his mouth as if to answer, but any words he may have spoken are lost in a muffled groan as Michelangelo presses against him, causing him to reflexively grip the boy’s shoulders once again.

The older warrior’s head turns away for just a moment before he lets out a soft sigh, catching his companion’s eyes and replying in a voice that is low, still thick with sleep and tinted with breathlessness, “Mikey-kun… I am your yojimb--”

“ _No_ ,” Mike corrects, cutting off his friend mid-sentence by impulsively seizing his mouth with one large green hand, sealing his palm over it. His eyes blaze directly into Usagi’s for a moment. He pulls his hand away, but only to begin kissing the ronin aggressively. There is more dominance in this kiss than affection. He would have submitted to any number of excuses -- but not that one.

The gruff lip-lock doesn’t last very long -- Usagi has time to realize it’s happening before it’s over. He just wants to have the warrior’s undivided attention as he insists, “Dude, I will accept a whole buncha reasons. Tell me that turtles just don’t do it for you, like we’re too different. I get that. You can give me some stupid crap about honor. Maybe you’re screwed up from the last person you got with. Maybe you’re worried about what my asshole big brother is gonna think. Maybe I smell bad, maybe you got a headache! It could be any of those reasons.” He brings his face in very close now, close enough for Usagi to feel the punctuation of his breath as he reiterates, “But I don’t _need_ a goddamned _yojimbo_ right now. I can take care of myself. I _been_ taking care of myself. But…”

Mike’s shoulders deflate, some of his aggression subsiding as his challenging gaze finally drops. He shifts onto his side but doesn’t disengage completely, tucking his face against the ronin’s shoulder and breastbone and sliding a questing hand over his companion’s downy stomach. “God... I’m so _lonely_ , Usagi.”

Usagi tenses once again as Michelangelo’s lips crash against his. The kiss is brief but it leaves the ronin gasping for breath when the shinobi pulls away. He is left to catch his breath and listen as he is berated by Michelangelo who still has him pinned firmly to the futon beneath them.

His nose wrinkles slightly, his whiskers twitching as the young warrior positions his face mere inches from his, each breath disturbing the tufts of fur which border his snout. The hand that traces the contours of his chest and abdomen is met with flexed muscles and an involuntary exhale of breath. With another soft sigh he replies in little more than a whisper as he lifts a paw, gently resting it on the turtle’s shoulder, “I am lonely as well, my friend.”

“Yeah,” Mike remarks, shifting his weight to his hip and one elbow. A touch of mirth creeps into his voice as he agrees, “I kinda figured. Don’t think I’m half as lonely as you are...” His eyes are following his hand now, watching it glide lower at a pace that is achingly slow, until it disappears beneath the blanket.

Oh, but he’s _going for it_. He’s giving plenty of warning, but unless otherwise hampered, Mike is determined to wrap that hand around his very first rabbit cock. His gaze slides up to check Usagi’s face. Plennnnnty of time to stop it.

Mike turns his head to press several kisses onto the ronin’s collarbone and upper chest, his scratchy voice pitched just above a whisper, his hand still slowly moving lower as he insists, “But we don’t _gotta_ be.”

Usagi gasped lightly as Michelangelo’s hand ventured further south in his body, arching his back up into the touch. The hand that is clasped onto the shinobi's shoulder grips more firmly as he watches the turtle, his eyes fixed on the boy with a look on timid anticipation.

The rumbling in the samurai’s bosom that had subsided began anew as if to meet the gentle kisses that were trailed across his chest. Usagi let his paw slip the the back of the turtle’s neck, teasing the scales there momentarily with his deceptively sharp claws before dipping his head down to press his snout gently against the ninja’s cheek.

“Ohhhyeah,” Mike exhales as his hand finally closes around his goal, this intriguing new plaything. He doesn't look away from where he is nuzzling Usagi’s face, not wanting this unexpected and magical affection to end. He feels it out blind.

His three thick fingers slide down the tapered length and then up again. Mike mutters soft encouragements as his rounded cheek scrapes over the whiskered chin. “There you are. I'm gonna make you feel so good.”

The ronin’s grip on the back of Michelangelo’s neck tightens, his hips buck upwards as soon as the shinobi’s fingers find his length. A choked gasp escaped his lips but the noise soon transforms instead into deep and throaty purrs from deep in his chest.

The turtle's cheek is met with an enthusiastic and whiskery nuzzle from the hare who pressed forward until he managed to cut off the whispered sentiment by catching Mike’s lips with his bucked teeth, pulling the younger warrior into a breathless and gentle kiss.

Michelangelo blinks in surprise at first, then surges forward to meet the kiss. His whole upper body presses closer, with just a tiny pocket of space between them to allow for the motion of Mike’s hand snaked between them. He can feel Usagi’s hot little tongue smashing and sliding against his. It strokes his own arousal, making his head spin and his cock throb. The turtle’s mouth parts from Usagi’s and he gasps the ronin’s name. He pulls in a lungful of air, enough to fuel the next round, before diving back into the make-out session with enthusiasm.

In his passion, the muscles in Mike’s tail spasm and react with a few involuntary thrusts that cause the spade-shaped tip to bump up against Usagi’s leg. He shifts back onto his knees and straddles one of Usagi’s legs so that his penis can sometimes slide into the space between their thighs. It feels _good_ when that happens, enough to make his breath catch and his eyelids flutter.

Mike’s kiss is deep and passionate. With his tongue pressing and twisting against Michelangelo’s, the ronin tried to match the much younger man’s enthusiastic pace. The purrs and moans coming from him were impeded by the heated exchange, making them manifest much more as muffled intakes of ragged breath.

The samurai began to shift beneath the turtle, his body moving in time with the shinobi’s hand stroking his hardened member. His padded feet dig into the futon beneath them as he lifts his body upward to press himself more firmly against the boy. Usagi breaks the kiss at the added friction, letting his head fall back into the pillows softly calling out the ninja’s name.

Michelangelo looks on as the older warrior breaks the kiss and rocks his head back. A little grin creeps onto his face as he regards what is looking like a job well done so far. He had been getting a little distracted with the poking and prodding going on down beneath the blankets, but the sound of his name being murmured in such an intimate way -- and by this beautiful creature whom he has come to admire -- it refocuses his efforts on pleasing rather than being pleased.

After a minute or so of tugging on Usagi’s cock the natural lubricant has mostly been spent on Mikey’s dry palms, so he darts his hand up quickly to spit into his hand. He tucks his face downward as he does this, trying to be quick and stealthy, knowing it will make the sliding of his palm feel immensely better.

His teeth dug into his bottom lip, physically biting back moans of pleasure that threatened to escape him as the turtle worked his hand along his shaft, the deftness of years of wielding his nunchaku evident in the fluid like movements of his wrist. The ronin’s body had begun to tense further with each measured stroke of that reptilian hand but the samurai practically deflated when Michelangelo pulled his hand away. An almost pathetic whine passed his lips in the moments that it took the turtle to coat his hand with saliva, pleading amaranth eyes opened slightly, imploring the turtle not to stop, but they were slammed shut when the cool scales once again enveloped him.

He was unable to stop the primal sounds from filling the air now, his claws gripping the shinobi tightly by the shoulders as Mikey’s efforts began again, now aided by the slick lubricant that the boy had so generously provided. “Oh gods, Mikey… please don't stop. Just… Just like that.” he begged between heaving breaths.

Mike doesn't stop -- not even to wonder how they came to be here. What became of his earlier resolve not to flirt? Well, they seem to have moved way past flirting. Probably best not to question it. There is no way he is backing off _now_ , when Usagi is literally begging him not to.

“Shhh… I got this, dude,” he soothes. “I am not going anywhere.” Michelangelo ducks his head to stroke the tip of his beak along the ronin’s furred jawline while his fist continues to pump furiously.

Usagi’s hips quickly begin to rock, every thrust matching the pace of Michelangelo's stroking hand and each accompanied by another grunt of pleasure. His grip became more firm and the samurai called out again as he released onto the shinobi’s plastron, collapsing onto the futon gasping for breath. The ronin’s knees were shaking as he lay, slowly opening his eyes to take in the turtle above him.

He gently lifted his head, pressing another soft kiss to Mikey’s lips before letting out a contented sigh. After just a moment or two of catching his breath the older male shoved Michelangelo roughly, forcing a switch in their positions -- quickly climbing on top of the boy, straddling his waist between his own fur covered thighs.

“Boku no ban desu. **(It's my turn)** ” The ronin teased with a devious smirk before scooting down enough that he was able to grab hold of Michelangelo’s exposed member with his sword calloused hands. Usagi’s grin remained on his face as he lowered his head, running his tongue along the gargantuan length before finally taking the spear like tip into his mouth.

Michelangelo flips over onto his back with little resistance. Just a blink of surprise, and he does manage the quick reaction of scraping his hand over his lower plastron as he is being toppled sideways and rolling onto his shell.

When Usagi states his intentions, Mike brings his hand up to take a noisy lick -- of course, it’s just covered in the rabbit’s cum. Then he beams impishly and agrees, “Kay!” It’s actually hella sexy that the ronin can just flip him around like that.

_And now he’s -- ohhh._

First the blue eyes get wider as the older warrior makes his true intentions known. Then they get very heavy, as the real action starts. His long neck strains to rock his head backwards and he breathes out, shuddering and slow.

His amaranth eyes were trained on Michelangelo as he worked, never leaving the turtle's face for more than a few moments, his rump was high in the air, cottontail twitching excitedly as he dipped down lower, letting the boy slide as deep into his throat as he could manage before he had to pull away to catch his breath.

The rabbit recovered quickly and continued to tease the tip of Michelangelo’s cock with his tongue and lips, letting saliva and precum drip along the length to lubricate the hardened muscle. Both of his paws were wrapped around the base by Mikey’s tail and would slide up the turtle’s shaft to meet Usagi’s lips each time he took more of the ninja into his mouth.

Michelangelo cannot do much more than moan with pleasure where he lay, gazing up at the yawning black above which must be the unfamiliar ceiling. Sometimes he tries to peek down past his plastron to catch a glimpse of what is going on down there, but all he can see is the faint shape of Usagi’s bobbing ears, the normally gleaming white reduced by the darkness to a velvety grey.

It is an intriguing sight. He watches spell-bound for a time, but eventually cranes his head back again and suckles at another of his slimy fingers. His tail thumps gently to meet the rhythm of Usagi’s strokes as the salty scent and taste of sex fills his head.

The pace of Usagi’s strokes becomes quicker, his paws tightening their already firm grip on the thick muscle. The ronin’s head moves in time with each of those measured strokes, taking as much of the length as he can manage, his teeth lightly scraping Michelangelo with each movement.

Without interrupting his almost feverish pace the hare slides one of his paws further down to take the boy’s tail into his palm. In a gentle manner that is quite the contrast from the attention that Mike’s cock is receiving, the samurai gently strokes the appendage with the pads of his fingers. Eager amaranth eyes flick upward, taking in the shinobi’s reaction.

 _Whooaaa there, Bunny Teeth_ … Mikey’s eyes pop open as he first feels them starting to graze some of his most vulnerable flesh. But it doesn't hurt. It still feels so good, actually. Just a tiny reminder of the risk, though. _He could probably chomp right through it in one bite with those teeth_ … A shiver runs through him at the thought -- though whether it is because he is spooked by this or turned on, he can't exactly tell. It seems kind of fucked up that he can't tell.

Michelangelo spends a few beats gazing into the darkness toward the ronin, even though he can't see anything in the black beyond Usagi’s ears and the lovely shifting silhouettes of his strong shoulders and back. But suddenly the shadows change.

When Usagi looks up, the young turtle is already looking in his direction, huffing with pleasure and looking decidedly spellbound. But the meeting of their eyes forms an instant connection. A smile breaks onto his features and he murmurs, his voice husky and unsteady with lust, “If you keep that up… fair warning, dude! You are gonna wind up paying for another trip to the bath house.”

Usagi lifts his head away from the turtle's member at the words, casting a mischievous and youthful smirk at him. The ronin deftly begins to crawl upward along the shinobi's body, his shoulders shifting like a tiger stalking its prey as he moves. When he is once again straddling Michelangelo’s waist he presses a soft kiss to his beak before straightening up and whispering to the boy in a low voice, “Might as well make it worth the trip then.”

Usagi lowered his paw behind him, grasping the swollen muscle protruding from Mikey’s tail, carefully pressing it against himself as he sank down onto it, letting out a deep moan as he is penetrated. After taking only the span of a few heartbeats to adjust the samurai started to roll his hips against Mikey, building up to a steady rhythm.

Michelangelo gasps as Usagi descends and his cock slides into a place of exquisite heat and pressure. It feels good enough to make his toes curl up and his hands become fists. In all the commotion taking place on the futon now, the blanket has been shaken off.

Blue eyes flutter open. Michelangelo can see his friend better now from this vantage, gleaming above him in the near darkness. Then the furred warrior is moving, a steady grinding rhythm. A turtle’s hips can't actually do that, so there is no upward thrust in return. Instead Mike’s tail is instinctively facilitating to slide and reposition as needed, happily serving its evolutionary function of helping to drive his phallus home.

Mike has no deep thoughts to spare for these mechanics nor the reasons behind anything that is happening. He is rapidly reaching a place where higher thought becomes elusive. He can only fuck and feel and grunt and thrust and breathe.

Usagi bit down on his lower lip to muffle the sound of rumbling purrs and moans coming from him as he rode the young shinobi. Each time he rolled his hips the turtle would slide further into him, causing his muscles to contract and tighten around the thick cock.

The samurai bent forward to drag his claws along Michelangelo's plastron as he dipped his head down, catching the turtle’s lips with his. The hare continued to rock his hips back against the turtle as his tongue snaked into the ninja’s mouth.

Oh, the lovely claws. Michelangelo can feel through the plastron -- though the sensation is muted, like tapping the top of a human fingernail. Still it serves to ramp up his excitement, feeling the drag of them over his plastron, the quiet click and scrape as they traverse each section of keratin.

His blunt teeth nip playfully at Usagi’s lower lip when he dips down for a kiss. Mike’s eyes are bright and flashing. “You are so insanely hot,” he breathes into the space between them once their mouths have parted.

The older warrior’s lips spread into a satisfied and devious grin at the words spoken by the turtle beneath him. He gives no verbal response but straightens himself once again, bringing his paws up and using them instead to deftly untie the fabric which held his ears into their signature topknot. Usagi shook his head lightly as his long ears fell loosely on either side of his head, framing his face in the dim light.

The samurai widened the placement of his knees on either side of the shinobi's body to bring Michelangelo deeper within him as he gradually built to a much quicker pace with his rolling hips. His eyes shut as his momentum sped up, his lips parted slightly, deep moans escaping from them with each enthusiastic gyration.

He cannot even find words at this point -- and that is a rare state for one such as Mikey to find himself in. There is no way the far less experienced turtle is going to be able to take much more of this incredible, relentless _friction_. His head rocks and his tail drives upwards to meet the impressive pace and rolling force being set by the beautiful samurai warrior.

It is as though every impaling downward motion of his new lover’s body is stoking a growing blaze inside him. A shivery anticipation and rising pressure is pooling deep in his gut. He knows that feeling, knows exactly what it means, and he is too far gone at this point to prevent the inevitable. His perspective fish-eyes, the backdrop of their rented room falling away until there is nothing but Usagi: his lean, muscular, gorgeous body, his silken fur sliding over Michelangelo’s skin, and the heady musk of semen and male sweat that hangs thick in the air around them.

The churring he hears is distant and distorted at first, dissociated from his current situation and frankly easy to ignore considering how swept up he is in the moment. It's not until Mike has already begun to cum that the sound sharpens, becomes personal, a mating call that is unique (they all have their quirks, in this regard) and distinctly recognizable as his own.

There is a jarring moment when Michelangelo realizes that the sound is coming from him -- not because it isn't a normal reaction, but it should have started sooner. _That’s weird_ … His brain sort of stutters on the thought only to wipe blank with pleasure in the next moment. Suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore. He is in that long, golden moment of ecstasy, a rush that expands and pulses in time to each spurt of his orgasm.

As it finally starts to ebb, his tail reflexively shoves as if it would keep him lodged as long as possible in spite of his ebbing erection. His eyes start to flutter. The thrust feels off, his softening cock expecting tight warm flesh and instead feeling wet, slimy linens. Nothing is quite falling into place -- not until he thinks he hears someone calling his name.

_Oh, no. Oh, no no no…_

Usagi had barely managed to get himself into his own bedding when he had finally situated Michelangelo into his sheets for the night, and had rid him of the wet clothing in order to prevent the turtle from catching cold. As he collapsed into his own soft blanket the ronin did not even bother to shed his kimono, he simply fell asleep a few moments after his head hit the pillow, the swimming and heavy sensation of intoxication quickly giving way to a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

While the samurai used to enjoy his dreams very much it had been far too long since the night had brought him anything that was not painful, memories of his lost love and a life that was stolen away from him due to no fault of his own. So a night where he was simply lost in the void of unconsciousness was more pleasant than he could possibly put words to. The only problem was that his reprieve from that profound loneliness was cut short, much sooner than he would have liked it to have been.

When he woke it was to nearly distressed sounds that his companion was making in the bed beside him. The rabbit was lying diagonally across his bed, one of his geta still hanging loosely on his toes and no small amount of drool matting the fur on his cheek. He brought a paw up to wipe his face as he straightened himself the correct way into his bed and turned to face the shinobi who was tossing and turning slightly in his bed.

In a voice that was still thick with sleep the samurai quietly called out, “Michelangelo-san… must you make _such a racket_ so early in the morning?”

This cannot be happening. Michelangelo pushes himself half upright and looks around in confusion and dismay, taking in all the details which now stand evident -- the most obvious being that Usagi’s voice is coming from too far away.

“Shit! I’m so sorry, dude! I… I was dreaming about somebody...” Mike is not about to admit that Usagi was the subject of his dream. He doesn't want to make things awkward… okay, well, it’s actually far too late for that. But he doesn’t want to make things _permanently_ awkward. And by now he has recalled all the reasons he had originally decided not to pursue his new friend actively.

“Somebody I lost too soon,” he further embellishes the lie. This particular one comes easily, because a very real part of him wishes it were true. _I'm sorry, Danny…_

After all, isn’t that who he _should_ have been dreaming of? He loved Danny with all of his heart, didn't he? Seven months does not seem like a very long grieving period. It feels like a betrayal of his dead lover’s memory, that Mike would already be having sex dreams about other people. And so the tears that spring suddenly to his eyes are genuine, even if his accompanying words were not.

If Usagi were to give in to his own selfish desires he would have simply dismissed the turtle’s confession and fallen back to sleep. However, that was not the type of man that Miyamoto was, so he instead slowly pushed himself up into his elbows and gave in the boy his full, albeit sleepy, attention.

“I can empathize, my friend. It is not easy to think back on the people who have left our lives. Particularly when those memories are brought about unexpectedly.” The ronin sat up fully, stretching his arms above his head before he added, “How about I go downstairs and fetch some tea? I always find that a hot cup of jasmine helps to soothe after unpleasant dreams.”

“Yes! You should totally go make tea,” Mike agrees, looking up hastily from the soiled blankets. “Ungh, jasmine. That's like the best kinda tea, too. I like it really strong, so you should steep it… a lot.”

This is going to take some luck, but maybe he can escape this humiliation.  
As soon as he can get Usagi down the hall and out of sight, Michelangelo is racing back in to gather up the soiled linens in a giant armful. Spying a young girl who is carrying an empty tray and leaving one of the rooms, he rushes towards her.

“Ahh… ahhh… embarrassment! Please help!” Mike begs her in broken Japanese. “I have a… a dream mistake! Please fix the blankets. Soon my friend returns, please help!”

Usagi nodded sleepily and agreed through a yawn which he hid behind a snow white paw, “Hai. I prefer my tea strong as well.” The ronin rose from his bedding, clumsily stepping back into his geta and straightening his kimono. “Do try not to dwell, my friend. I will return shortly and we can talk about it, if you wish.”

The hare proceeded out of the room, wrapping his arms around himself to stay warm and trying to keep his footfalls light as to not disturb any other guests that may still be sleeping. As he made his way down to the kitchens he found himself smiling back at the pleasant festival that he had been able to spend with his charge. Even though there had been a few ups and downs the evening was the best that he could recall having in many seasons.

It had been far too long since he had been able to spend time with a friend and actually enjoy himself. He had become quite adept at hiding what could only be described as his misery behind a stoic mask. But those closest to him had even begun to see through that in the years following his and Leo’s parting ways.

The pleasant night and the peaceful sleep did however also painfully remind him of how he relied so heavily on the numbing haze of sake to get him through the pain of losing Mariko in his youth. It had become habitual, for a time, to drown those feelings of betrayal in hot wine - a habit made only easier with the aid of Gennosuke, who always seemed to have a ready supply.

The samurai shook his head lightly to dispel those memories as he rapped his knuckles on the wooden frame of the kitchen and asked for a pot of tea. He watched the leaves slowly steep into the water, turning it from clear to a murky brown, silently assuring himself that it would not become a problem again.

Kachi was not, in fact, extremely thrilled with the particulars of the naked turtle man’s urgent emergency. She recalled, however, that this foreigner’s companion wore the swords of a true samurai. Though merely a ronin, she presumed that was still a far step up in station from that of a barbarian foreigner. This one’s strong desire not to disgrace himself in the eyes of his master is completely understandable, even commendable! That is what the girl reminds herself as she drags her gaze up, away from his nude form -- away from his disgusting, wadded blanket, which is not only soiled but starting to _drip_ , and -- Kachi must steady herself. She works very hard to plaster the gentle and accommodating smile back onto her face.

His situation could not be more clear to her, in spite of the fact that she has barely been able to understand his frantic tumble of badly pronounced words. In spite of his startling appearance, the young man’s eyes were kind and relatable. Even in his desperation, they seemed more honest and harmless than they ought to be, according to stories she has heard about blue-eyed devils from across the sea.

She huffs with growing impatience and must gesture for him to be silent. Thankfully, he seems to comprehend. Kachi held her arms out to accept the bundle, hoping that her clipped bow and the fall of her hair will be enough to mask her distasteful grimace. With a bit of creative re-folding to ensure that worst of the mess is contained, she ensures her spotless garb will not soiled as she tucks it under one arm. The other alights upon the naked green devil’s strong shoulder to gently but firmly steer him back into his room before the sight of him can disturb any of the inn’s other patrons. “Chotto matte, kudesai, **(Please, wait a moment)** ” she speaks softly, slowly, not sure if he might be slightly daft, then turns on her heel and hurries out of sight.

The blanket she returns with is not freshly laundered. She is not going to be lured into doing extra work for the sake of this foreigner. The sun is only starting to break over the horizon, but several patrons have already departed. It is from one of these rooms which Kachi snags a blanket. It may not be fresh -- it smells faintly of Bull, actually -- but it far _more_ fresh than the soiled one she leaves in its place. Let the lonely old farmer be blamed by the washing wenches, and let her be done with the horrible matter!

By the time Usagi returns, Michelangelo is sprawled out innocently on his fresh- _ish_ , grassy smelling blanket. He has a sketchbook open in front of him, lazily sketching a picture of Kitsune from memory. He pushes up off his plastron and shifts into a cross-legged position, flashing his friend a sheepish smile.

Usagi pushed open the door to their room with his shoulder, as his hands were full with the tray on which he had placed the lot of tea and several glasses. When he made it over to his friend he once again kicked off his geta before gracefully lowering himself into a lotus position next to the turtle.

“It was still too early for me to get us any breakfast, but the cook said that they will have some ready within the hour. For now, we will have to make due with just the tea.” the ronin said as he went about pouring each of them a cup.

Miyamoto glanced over at the sketch book in Mikey’s lap as he took a sip of his tea and quietly commented, “That is quite good. I am sure that Kitsune would approve.” With a slight shrug of his shoulder he added, “I have never had so much talent when it comes to art. I must admit that I am somewhat envious.”

“Riiight,” Mike grin at Usagi. “Because you don't have ANY enviable skills that I can think of…” He glances down at his picture. Truthfully, he’s only just started working on this sketch so it is still quite rough. It pleases him that Usagi can already tell who it is supposed to be.

Michelangelo closes his journal and sets the pencil aside before leaning to pick up his tea cup. “I’m pretty sure you are awesome enough already! And you better be careful, because if you are like, ‘aw, man! I wish I was a better artist!’ then the gods are gonna be like, dude! We already made you a master swordsman and a yojimbo and a really good fishmonger and a camp builder and a pathfinder and a forager and a diplomat and probably a whole slew of other skills that I haven't found out about yet! And if you keep it up, they’re gonna be all, yo, that bunny is getting greedy! Yeah? Let's mess with him.”

The young turtle finally stops talking long enough to sample his tea. It’s actually pretty good! He didn't used to be a big fan of tea -- and he’ll probably never be wild for it like Leo -- but Mikey is coming to appreciate subtler flavors lately.

Usagi sipped his tea, his head cocking to the side slightly as Michelangelo spoke. After a moment he let out a soft sigh and quietly replied, “That is actually rather good insight. You are truly wise beyond your years, Michelangelo-san. I would do well to take my blessings as they have been presented to me and be grateful to the Gods for them.”

He gave the shinobi a sleepy but genuine smile, nodding towards the sketchbook which has been set aside, “Though I will continue to admire your talent, my young friend. You do truly have a gift.”

The ronin drained his cup of tea and set it on the tray in front of him before looking up at his companion, bringing a paw up to scratch at his neck and awkwardly stating, “Michelangelo-san… if you would like to speak about your friend, I am more than happy to listen. But I shall not pry.”

Michelangelo smiled politely and even thought to dip his head in a casual bow of acknowledgement and thanks for the compliment, even though the words give him that same bittersweet twinge that he usually feels when someone praises his artwork or his writing. He’s got no faith to put into any of these pursuits, which will always come second to his pre-written destiny of being a ninja and an outcast. He will never know what it’s like to stand before his work in a gallery on opening night. He will never be able to walk into a comic book shop openly, so the idea of walking in to see his own published work available on the wall amongst the other new issues is an even more fantastic dream. But of course, he dreamed it anyway.

Does Michelangelo want to talk about Danny? Hell, why not? It's already shaping up to be a melancholy sort of morning, now that the excitement of the festival, that passionate dream, and the panic of a nearly mortifying situation are all behind him. He might as well embrace it.

“Danny,” Mike sighs. “His name was Danny. But I wouldn't actually learn that for a really long time. It wouldn’t even be a romance, for a really long time! The first time I met him… well, he couldn’t have been more than fourteen and already hustling in Chelsea. That's, um -- well, it’s one of the two neighborhoods where I live in Manhattan that are considered kinda gay. Like, plenty of dudes looking to hook up with other dudes. And Greenwich Village has gone all rich and commercial, but Chelsea… it’s one of those places where you gotta stick to certain streets. It's all art galleries and hip cafes and trendy bars and dance clubs on one street, right? And on the next it’s just row after row of housing projects. That's, like, when ya got real poor people all packed too tight into the rooms of these shabby buildings that are stuck together in a big long row and they all look exactly the same. They're kind of depressing, and they can be dangerous -- not to me, obviously, but to most people.”

Mike relates his tale with wistful calm, gazing down at his tea for the most part, with occasional upward glances. Now he pauses to sip from his teacup before continuing. “He wasn’t technically a street kid, I guess. After his dad tossed him out, he found some older boys who let him crash with them. They lived together in the bad part of Chelsea, and were showing him how to make a living flirting with the good part, you know? Hitting up dudes who are leaving the bars and clubs on their own. Learning how to spot somebody with money, somebody who looks lonely enough that they might wanna pay for some company.”

Mike peeks up at his friend and smirks faintly, wondering, “You follow all that so far, or did I lose you using too many modern words?”

Usagi nodded slowly, “I think I have got it. I am growing more accustomed to the way you speak. A few details might be lost on me, but I understand that Danny was a boy of unfortunate means, in an unfortunate area, with unfortunate acquaintances, learning to make the best of an unfortunate situation by seeking those of good fortune for temporary companionship in exchange for money.”

The ronin then refilled his tea, deciding to fully commit himself to wakefulness as to pay the proper respect to the deeply personal story which his companion was making him privy to.

He took a sip of his drink before adding with a soft sigh, “It is a story all too familiar for many, regardless of the world you come from. Please, continue.”

Michelangelo nods faintly. His gaze is trained down at the contents of his teacup, but at the same time they are very far away. “My brother Raph always took a special interest in a neighborhood called Harlem. Got so he was sort of a local legend in that part of town. There’s a dive bar in Harlem still gotta sign in the window, says ‘The Nightwatcher Drinks On The House.’ Which I think annoys him, cuz he hasn't gone by that name in ages, but that's still what they wanna call him. Anyway, I haven't been nearly so flashy about it, right? But lately, I like to look after Chelsea…” The smile he flashes Usagi is vaguely fond as the flashbulbs of several remembered victories go off before his eyes. He has to physically toss his head before he can shake them off and refocus.

“But it wasn't all about fighting the wicked, I gotta admit. Maybe I also wanted to peek into galleries after hours and listen to what songs the clubs were remixing and just… I dunno.” He finishes the remaining tea in his cup and sets it down, wondering if maybe this will sound creepy to Usagi, like he is some kind of voyeur. “I also just wanted to people watch. See people living their lives, out and proud… maybe it was all the time, or maybe just in that part of town, for a little while. It was still good to see, somehow -- even if I couldn't much take part.

“So, the first time I saw Danny, he was working. And there was no reason to interfere. He was just making money, and damned if he didn’t seem to be having fun with it. Still, I could tell he was just a kid. I thought it was kind of a shame, that he had to be out working instead of… I dunno, having impossible high school crushes or trying to sneak into those clubs with a fake ID. Er, that's… like, forged identification? To prove he was old enough to be dancing and drinking at sort of a rowdy adults only tavern with music that is always playing real loud.

“Anyway, Danny was pretty careful for the most part. But he became one of the high risk kids I looked out for in particular, along with a couple other homeless strung out kids and all three of his friends. And even though he was young -- like, way too young, I knew that! But even still, he was… he was kind of ‘the pretty one’, to me. God, he just was. I couldn't help it. He was in a lot better shape than the other boys. Beautiful skin. So, uh… yeah. It's still kinda dangerous work, and eventually his luck runs out. And holy shit, I am just _stoked_ at the chance to step in and be this kid’s hero. My entrance is just -- ugh, so flashy. Stealth, what the hell is that? This entrance is _parkour extraordinaire,_ man. We’re talking, five flips minimum, stick the landing, so fucking sexy. You shoulda seen it.

“I hit the concrete and bounce into an aggressive stance. I’m ready to fucking rock this asshole who thinks he can waltz into MY part of town take whoever he wants without handing over any money. And I look around and realize, to my incredible shock, that this kid apparently doesn't NEED my help because he's already incapacitated the motherfucker. Turns out, before he left home, this kid was really into mixed martial arts.

“Danny’s panting over this dude's fallen body, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out if he might have to take me out next. Cuz I'm just like, ta-da! Here I am! The world's least stealthy, most flat-footed ninja, appearing before you for _no goddamned reason_ apparently…” In spite of his grief, Mike winds up laughing.

Usagi cannot help but to chuckle along with Mikey, being able to imagine the dramatic entrance and awkward encounter as it vividly reminded him of a younger version of himself who had climbed on top of a statue in the Hall of Champions for the sole purpose of leaping down from it impressively in front of Leonardo to assist him with a fight he did not truly need help with.

“I am sorry that I missed that entrance, Mikey-kun. I am sure it made quite an impression on your young friend.” the ronin added playfully. “I take it though that this Danny did not proceed to pummel you.”

“Naw. Not that night, anyway.” The turtle shakes his head. “But we didn't become besties, either. He didn't know what I was about, you know? Jumping outta the shadows like that. I can't blame him for spooking. Nah, he wouldn't pummel me until later… after he’d been recruited by the foot clan.”

Michelangelo’s smile has gone rueful, twisting at the edges. “I'll be honest. I might’ve let him, a little bit. I didn't want him to think he was doing badly! For a human, he was doing great! I mean, obviously he had too much skill for the work he had been doing. But it just sucks that _they_ got to him. I keep wondering, what if I’d approached him sooner, or found a better way? Maybe if I hadn't _scared_ him… but I did. So, you know... when the Foot Clan is asking these new recruits if they’ve heard of their most dangerous enemies, these mutant turtles, of course he’s gonna be like, ‘Yeah! I seen a turtle.’

“That intel, that I was hanging out in Chelsea, was probably good for raising him an easy rank or two in his new clan. It was a pretty good trap they set. I escaped, obviously, but I was sweating for a second there. Didn't kill any Foot that night. Guess in spite of everything, I was still trying to make a good impression.”

When the information came to light that this school boy crush of Michelangelo’s had become a member of The Foot Clan of ninja the ronin could not help but give an empathetic pained hiss, understanding fully well the implications of the boy joining the only rival clan of the Hamato’s. At this point in the story things were not boding well for his young friend.

So too was the story of The Foot, and Danny’s assault on Michelangelo painful to listen to. Particularly with the knowledge that the terrapin had taken a liking to the boy.

The ronin raised a brow and leaned forward slightly, letting himself become immersed in the story, even though he knew that this tale was not going to have a good ending. “And did you? ...Make a good impression, that is.”

“Not that night. But… eventually? Yeah.” Michelangelo’s eyes had been very far away, but now he breaks into a smile. He’s looking right into Usagi’s eyes as he admits, “I can be _real_ persistent. Once I’ve decided that I want something, I'll wear ya down...” _Fair warning, samurai._

“I kept haunting Chelsea after that, even though they knew to look for me there. If there were too many, I wouldn't engage. But every chance I could, I would isolate him -- take down his buddies, as gently as possible -- and then we would fight. Drawing it out, keeping the banter going. It had to be obvious that I was toying with him. His Foot buddies gave up after a while, but he kept coming back…”

In just a few sentences, Michelangelo is completely wrapped up in telling his story, his blue eyes lost in memories. “One on one, our fights felt more like sparring matches than battles. I started correcting the mistakes I saw, or I’d demonstrate what I thought he'd been trying to do. At one point he straight up told me that he learned more in an hour with me than he did in a week with the Foot Clan. He kept telling me that I was a fool to train him, because someday he would use those skills to kill me.”

Mike reaches for the tea pot, refreshing Usagi’s cup first and then refilling his own.”Someday… it became sort of a running joke. Even after a year of this, when we had dropped most of the other pretenses and could just hang together, he would still say that sometimes. I’d do something to annoy him -- or do something way too nice, something he couldn’t repay, and he would just look at me and go, ‘Someday, Mikey... you better be careful.’”

Michelangelo pauses, gazing into the steam for a moment before he says in a lower voice, “All lies. I must have given him a dozen different chances…”

Usagi cannot help but smile, thinking back to his own relationship with Leonardo. How their spars gradually had become intimate and true demonstrations of their affections for one another, he could only assume that it was the same way for Michelangelo and his young love. The flutter of anticipation before the fight began, how each landed blow might as well have been a kiss or a gentle embrace.

The happy little bubble of memory that he had allowed to surface quickly burst, reality settling back around him as though it were a storm cloud cresting the horizon, blocking out the summer sun with it’s impenetrable darkness.

No matter the fondness he had for those times, they were gone. His happiness and any future he may have had with Leonardo officially lost in the ether of the realms of ‘What If?’

His shoulders visibly drooped, but only slightly. This was his karma. The sooner he truly accepted that, the better.

He gave his companion a brief smile, but it was one that did not quite reach his eyes.

“How long did you get with him?”, he asked, knowing that he may actually regret having the answer. There was no way that Mikey got the time that he and Leonardo had gotten. He doubted that the boy could even count the change of seasons that he got to spend with Danny on his three fingered hand. Which was unfair, that people that may have actually lasted together got so little time, while he and Leonardo who had fallen apart so easily got to spend so many years at one another's side.

“It shouldn't have been _any_ days,” Mike admits with a sigh. “It wasn't supposed to be about that. That's what I kept telling myself, anyway... I wrote pages and pages about it in my journal. I just could tell he was worth saving, and I really thought I _could_ , so… so I had to! It was the heroic thing to do.”

A blush spreads across Mike’s cheek as he adds sheepishly, “But eventually he, uh, well. He had other ideas. And think I stayed real strong, all things considered! I planned to at least wait until he was seventeen -- that's, well there’s these ‘laws of consent’ where I come from? Younger than seventeen and that is basically considered rape on the part of the older dude. But honestly, I didn't care so much about that as I cared about him still being in the Foot Clan. Even if his heart wasn’t in it, and all that. Clan law means a whole lot more to me than human laws, anyway. That's what kept me strong. So I told him, no way. Not even when you turn seventeen… not if you’re still rolling with an enemy clan. I can't follow you to the Dark Side, I told him. But if you come with me, I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. And he… he believed me. He actually came.”

Michelangelo lowers his eyes and shakes his head heavily. The second cup of tea is going cold, untouched in front of him. “But I didn't do enough, I guess. Because… four days. That's all we got. For four days, he was free and he was mine. And then… and then _Leo_ got him killed.” His hands become fists as he says this and his voice becomes very flat. “I was out trying to get us supplies when they found where we were hiding. They grilled him, but he didn't know which way I’d gone. And then Leo decided they should leave him there, alone and undefended. Lead the Foot Clan right to him.”

As the turtle beside him spoke it felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck the samurai, realization coursing through him as profoundly and as painfully as the crackling electricity would have.

He had not even thought about the possibility of these 'laws of consent' throughout his years with Leonardo. Their relationship was, on his world, perfectly legal and even commonplace among his social class. But now… this knowledge that Leonardo had let him remain unaware of the implications of their relationship in the shinobi’s world… the fact that he would be seen as little more than a rapist to the turtle’s family… it made his skin crawl.

The cloud of despair and hurt that was now cast over him was one that even Usagi was aware of, but try as he might he was unable to remove the pained and ugly grimace from his normally handsome features.

“That is horrible.” he muttered, trying to cover his own feelings with the guise of being only upset for the circumstances that his friend was forced to endure. “I am sorry for your loss, Mike.”

And truly he was. It was awful that Michelangelo was deprived of a life with this boy who had meant so much to him. However, actual thoughts of Mikey’s grief were definitely muted by his own spiral of self-deprecation and anger.

_How could he have done this to me? To us?_

_It is no wonder that he was ashamed to admit what I was to him, why he refused to let his family know. Because for them I would only have been nothing more than a pervert, guilty of molesting their brother._

_Is that what he thought of me? What he thinks, still?_

_Perhaps he simply grew weary of being abused and being taken advantage of._

_I always wondered why he would not let me stay by his side, why he abandoned me. I suppose I need not wonder any more._

“I wish that things had been different.” he concluded grimly, to himself more than his companion, only barely masking his own hurt.

Michelangelo looks up quickly at Usagi's tone. His natural reaction is reassure his companion -- to tell him _it's okay_ \-- but it's not, of course. It hasn't been okay with him for quite some time. So he opens his mouth, then closes it, cutting off whatever dishonest platitude had been about to spring from his lips.

He winds up lingering too long in Usagi’s gaze. It almost feels like his hurt becomes worse somehow, more profound. He drops his eyes quickly, trains them on the tea cup and centers himself as Leo taught him, in an effort not to look any closer than he should. For once, this effort is mostly successful.

Mikey dislikes having inspired such pain in the older samurai… but at the same time, it is touching that Usagi should empathize with his tale on such a deep and personal level.

He doesn't know what to say, and winds up saying nothing.

Usagi let out a deep sigh, his eyes focusing on the light ripples in the surface of his tea. He found, with a small pang of regret, that he wished he had, instead, sake to wash away these tumultuous feelings that had surfaced.

He lifted his cup to his lips, draining the scalding contents in a single gulp before setting it in front of him and looking up to his companion. The ronin forced a small smile before adding softly, “It does not do to dwell in the past, however. Regardless of the hopes we may have had for our futures our only true option now is to move forward in life’s path, yes?”

He quickly stood up, bottling his feelings deep within him, for now, and went about straightening his kimono.

Michelangelo nods hastily, knowing the ronin is giving him good advice. “That which does not kill us makes us stronger, yeah?” It's almost like something his father would have said, and he almost blurts this thought aloud but changes his mind at the last moment. Thinking too long about his dad is a quick way to lead himself into further sadness, and hasn't there been enough sad talk already this morning?

“That's a thing people say, back on my planet,” he supplies instead -- once again mistaking alternate dimensions for other worlds. They are from different versions of the same planet, but Michelangelo still struggles to wrap his brain around this concept. It's like, he KNOWS it's true. Mike could even roughly outline Leo or Donnie's wildly varying and equally boring definitions and complicated explanations about what the multiverse is and how it’s supposed to work. He could pass an Official Lesson on the topic, but actually _understanding_ it like they do? Bigtime nope. At least, not enough to pull it off unscripted, or remember during a casual conversation. It doesn't help that this place is so very _alien_... The rocky coastline and lush, unspoiled landscapes are so unlike the urban sprawl and subterranean tunnels that Mike has always associated with home. He also regularly forgets that he has not traveled into the past.

Usagi nodded grimly at the quote from turtle’s world, letting the boy’s revision of his own thought sink in for a moment. He supposed that the phrase was meant to fill a person with hope about their own suffering, to assure them that the things they have gone through somehow made them better for having experienced it. But the old hare was not entirely sure that he could buy into that.

He had never felt as lost or weak in his life as he did now. The samurai could not honestly say that he felt as though he had has grown strong in his life, he had merely suffered long enough to see his delusions of hope shattered before him.

He felt that his own experience much more aligned with his own turn of phrase. He was not growing stronger. He was merely _moving forward_.

The old ronin gave the boy a half hearted smile that was quite obviously forced and softly addressed him, “Wise words, my friend... Now, I do believe it is best that we are off. We have a long way to travel and have dawdled too long. The Geishu province awaits us.”

Usagi quickly made his way to his worn rucksack, throwing it over his shoulder with a gentle flick of his wrist. He did not bother to turn back to make sure Michelangelo was with him as he left the dim inn room or made his way out into the busy streets. If there was one thing he knew the Hamato’s were capable of, it was their impressive speed. He was sure that the boy would be on his heels in short order.

He took a deep breath, appreciating the sting of salt water in the air. It helped to clear his head, even if he wished the blasted sun did not have to shine so brightly. As he passed through the city to gather their supplies and find a caravan to work for the ronin pulled the aviator sunglasses that Leonardo had given him so many years ago out of the folds of his kimono, setting them on the bridge of his snout.


	17. The Bro Code

The younger ninja chuckled and then sat down on one of the stairs of the overly large tub and began the arduous task of unbuckling his boots. As his nimble fingers worked at the seemingly endless supply of zippers and buckles he looked up to his older brother, “Want to join me? It is plenty big enough for the both of us.”

“Huh.” Raphael makes no move to disrobe. He merely gives his brother a dubious look, with his left brow ridge furrowed and his upper lip curled. “Don’t you think that breaks a pretty serious Bro Code? The two of us, full grown and jumping into the bathtub together?”

But truthfully the temperature in here was already warmer and more humid as hot water continues to pour into the giant circular basin. Raph had already been thinking to himself that it would be nice to shed the hoodie soon, and now he _can't_ take it off. He doesn’t want to give Don the impression that he is on board with this crazy communal sibling bathtime proposal. They haven't bathed together since they were, what -- three or four years old? Maybe younger than that. Sure, they would find places in the sewer to strip down and go _swimming_ with no compunction, but that’s different. For some reason.

Okay, so… _maybe_ he is tempted. But Raph is still trying not to let that show. Instead, he feels obliged to clarify, “This is a _whirlpool tub_. That’s not the same thing as a Jacuzzi.” He lifts his snout higher to give the other turtle an arch look as he scolds, “It’s important to be accurate. Especially when Bro Code violations are at stake.”

Donatello merely chuckled at the nearly homophobic argument that his brother presented to him to dismiss the idea of sharing the impressively large bath tub with him. He pulled off his boots, chucking them unceremoniously to the side before standing and removing his heavy leather jacket and gear, excluding his arm wraps and mask and addressing the other turtle.

“While, yes, speaking for sheer accuracy - this is a bathtub and we would technically be sharing a bath were you to join, I do not think that your “bro-code” is in danger here, Raph. The tub is large enough that we could both stretch simultaneously and never come close to touching.”

The genius shinobi tossed his clothing on top of the boots at the side of the tub, effectively toppling the whole pile and placed his hands on his hips before adding, “Plus, I doubt that anyone would look down on you for soaking at the opposite end of an extraordinarily large tub with your asexual brother.”

Raphael blinks at Don and then looks down for a moment, trying to figure out if there was a joke in there somewhere that he is simply not getting. When he can't seem to find one, he looks up and ticks a half grin. “Well, when ya put it that way....”

He strips off the sweatshirt as well as his leathers, dropping them onto the river stones that surround the tub before easing himself into the water. Raph is careful not to get his bandaged hand submerged. The bandages are fairly clean at least. He’s been diligent about that, though not so much about alternating ice and heat as Leo had advised.

Even after he’s in, Raph is not sure what to say at first. Finally, he spurs himself to just go with what has become his default lately -- the unfiltered truth.

After a short and genuinely baffled laugh, Raphael admits, “Okay, I just played that off, for some reason. But... I'm not sure I actually… okay, when you say _asexual_. I am diggin’ deep into our homeschooling days and thinkin’… like, _starfish_? Or amoebas, or some shit? Like, isn’t that how you can cut up a starfish and get a buncha new starfish, and that's how the birds and the bees work for them? Which, yanno, sounds like… not at all what you mean, I'm guessing?”

Raph is snickering again (he can't quite help it!) as he concludes, “I mean, unless you are seriously comin’ out to me as a starfish… heh, you probably better break that big word down for me.”

Donatello slipped into the water, sighing deeply and resting his head on the rim as he let his body adjust to the warmth. However, his head shot upright at his brother's commentary, deep and legitimately amused laughter bubbling from his chest - not only for his brother but also due to the fact that his thick framed glasses had completely fogged over from the steam.

The younger shinobi removed the glasses from his face, setting them down with far more care than he had given his other belongings before explaining, “Well, you are half right.”

With another chuckle he continued, “Creatures, such as starfish, have what is called ‘Asexual Reproduction’, which means that they are able to reproduce without the transfer of gametes. Which is to say that they do not require mating or a partner to reproduce. When you are speaking of humans, or mutant turtles apparently, it simply means a person that has no sexual urges, desires or interest.”

Don relaxed a bit more into the water but furrowed his brow as if he were flipping through a mental encyclopedia for more information, “That is not to say that a person cannot have _romantic_ thoughts, desires or even fall in love. An asexual person certainly has a desire and need for intimacy or closeness as any person does. But those things do not translate into sexuality.”

He looked up from his position and gave Raphael a half shrug, “I mean, maybe if I were to find someone I was compatible with romantically I would - Gah. No, I doubt I would ever let myself become involved. I have way too many issues and my life is way too dangerous. It would be an unfair position to put anyone in. So I gave up on the notion of it a long time ago, even if I did, at one time, find the idea of romantic companionship appealing or possible.”

 _No sexual urges? Sounds fake, but okay_. Raphael tries to picture having NO sexual urges and honestly has a hard time wrapping his mind around it. Luckily, Don goes on to say some things that are far more familiar territory -- things he has thought himself many times -- and it helps him to relax, gives him the false sense of thinking he and his brother might be on the same page after all.

“Yeah, okay. I get all that,” Raph scowls thoughtfully. “Not wanting to put a girl in danger? Not being sure if you're even... compatible, or whatever? Figured I'd be monstrous to any girl who ever saw me… who saw it, heh. Wrote off the whole idea, for the longest time… Lost fucking cause. Fh’gheddabouttit!”

He grins wolfishly. It’s pretty obvious from the mischief in that grin. Recent events must have somehow reopened his mind to the possibility. But his mirth falters, and he abruptly wonders, “Would you also say that, like… I mean. Okay. When you said, like… NO desire. Do you mean… okay, are you talking like… you can feel romantic thoughts, but, like. Physically, you, uh.”

Oh, man. Raph has never, ever talked about this, not to anyone but Master Splinter. And even that was so long ago. He swallows hard and forges on bravely. “Do you mean, it's too far outside the… Uh, well, the spring time? So you can't actually…”

Raphael’s dominant bandaged hand attempts a gesture commonly used to pantomime masturbation. His wrist currently isn't flexible enough to make it quite as lewd as it might have been prior to the injury, but Don can probably still get the gist.

Donatello remained reclined against the lip of the tub, his gaze cast over at his brother as Raphael spoke. It seemed as though the other turtle got what he was saying. At least to an extent. And while the conversation was a little awkward it was far from uncomfortable for him.

This was simply another facet of his personality, one that he was resigned to. He would much rather be confessing the truth of this to his brother instead of delving into his mental state or the breadth of his maladaptive and destructive coping skills.

“It is not that I can't. I certainly can. And spring time has the same hormonal effects on me that it does any of you. I am more irritated, on edge, emotional and, yes, indulge in masturbation.” Don finishes by using the same gesture which Raph had attempted, but far more gracefully.

“Though, honestly, I don't really find pleasure in it. It is just something that needs to be done to allow me to focus. Another thing on the daily checklist. More of an inconvenience than anything.”

“The same hormonal effects, huh?” Raphael gives a disbelieving laugh at that -- his classic laugh for when he finds something equally funny and painful. “I doubt that, bro. Based offa’ what you just said? I _highly_ doubt that.”

He isn't offended by what Don said, not at all, but it may not come across that way initially. His face is downright stormy with a flash flood of internal conflict, and for a moment it might actually look like he is getting out of the tub. But he just dangles over the edge to retrieve his hoodie. He turns and wads it up into a ball against his plastron, leaving his wet handprints on the fabric.

“Just pack that bowl,” he sighs, pitching the whole jacket at Don before sinking back into the warm water, which now seems to be tinted purple from the crazy disco lighting. “And try ta look real busy and distracted while yer doing it, so I can…” He shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling wearily. “I dunno. So I can get real with you.”

Donatello sat up in the water quickly as the jacket was thrown his way, his fine tuned shinobi training instantly kicking in as the projectile came into his personal space. He managed to catch the article, not even letting it hit the water, which was a feat as his own movement had caused the surface of the tub to become tumultuous as newly formed waves crested the edges.

The genius raised a brow at both the laughter and the request but he did as he was told without saying a single word. Silently he slipped both the sandwich bag of cannabis from within the pocket of Raph’s hoodie before leaning over the edge of the tub to fetch the obnoxiously vibrant orange glass pipe from his own belt on the floor. He turned his body slightly, finding a dry section of porcelain to begin meticulously breaking apart the dried plant, patiently waiting for his brother to “get real”

Raphael suddenly wishes he could submerge more of himself. He probably _would_ have, except that it doesn't seem wise -- or courteous -- to get the bandages soaked. He has been changing them faithfully each morning (having promised Leo he would, just before he left, when the injury was first tended), but it’s already pretty grimy from today's workout. Using them in place of a wipe board eraser earlier probably didn’t help either. Donnie’s a lot more particular lately about cleanliness, and he doesn't want to spoil the experience for him. He settles his right arm on the rim of the tub and lets the rest of him sink into the bath as much as possible. He winds up leaning his head on his right shoulder while the other curls around his plastron below the surface of the water.

At least the heat sinking into his skin is relaxing. Raphael suspects that he would be a lot more wound up about discussing this, if not for the small but constant flow of well being that always trickles into him with any steady exposure to warm temperatures.

“So… the thing is, I… can't,” he finally says, quietly matter-of-fact. Raph can't meet his brother's gaze right now. Instead he ends up watching purple and silver ripples dancing on the surface of the agitated water. “All through winter. Also the end of fall… first couple weeks of spring, usually. If there's frost on the ground topside, you can pretty much bet that I won't be able to… uh, indulge in masturbation. Or even get it out of my tail.

“Cranking the heat up don't help. Or maybe it would, if I never left the lair? But, you know me... I can't ever stay cooped up for too long, it makes me feel crazy. And as soon as I step out into the cold, and the chill sinks into my skin…” Raphael's forehead rumples and deep creases appear between his furrowed brow ridges as he slowly shakes his head. “I dunno, man… it's like something shuts off inside of me. And once that happens, it don't matter how much my head might get turned on. I’m like… come on, little buddy! We got real live boobs to play with and everything! And my tail’s just… fuck you, pal. Too damn cold.”

With a disconsolate chuckle, his pale green eyes lift from where they had been fixed on hypnotic patterns in the bubbling water. They flash up to look at Don briefly, braving eye contact just long enough to remark, “Are we a fucked up pair, or what? Here I am, sex drive to spare and a tail that don't always cooperate... and _you_ , apparently, got no sexual desire and more boners than you know what to do with! Shit, maybe we were twins after all. Like, non-identical, but sharing the same egg or whatever, and something got scrambled.”

Donatello raised a brow at the admission, wondering for a moment how to respond before choosing his stoic humor to try lightening any tension rather than being analytical towards his brother. “Oh, I know what to do with them. I have access to the internet as well, Raphael.”

The purple clad shinobi finished packing the dried and now crumbled herbs into the pipe, making sure that they were pressed evenly across the surface before fishing the beat up red Bic out of the hoodie beside him. “The truth of the matter is that I just do not really enjoy it. It is time consuming, it is messy and it is not fun. I would much rather be reading or doing something productive if I have awhile to myself.”

Donatello brought the pipe up to his lips, inhaling deeply as he held the little flame to the edge of the bowl, watching with somewhat chaotic satisfaction as a portion of the green withered and turned into black, a bright red cherry appearing in the center of the destruction. He held the pipe out to Raph, slowly exhaling and speaking through the cloud of smoke, “I am curious about these breasts at your disposal. To whom do they belong? Don't think that tid bit of information got past me. Who is she?”

His brother's total non-reaction to the impotence reveal throws Raph off-balance. _Did he already know? What, is it OBVIOUS to everybody somehow? Jesus_ … He’s frowning darkly as he reaches for the glass pipe. It would be easy in this moment to misinterpret his expression as disapproval or even anger at the questions Don just asked. But the truth is, Raphael is completely unaware of what his face is up to. He’s sternly telling himself to calm the hell down. _Even if Donnie did figure me out ages ago, it don't mean the others know. Guy’s got eyes like Sherlock Holmes. He probably looks at the world and sees charts and blueprints and calculations overlayed on top of everything…_

With that last thought Raph glances up at Don, and doing this chases away most of the storm clouds that had been shading his face just moments ago. Because he is not upset at Don, nor is he daunted by the question. Out of all the secrets the off-duty jonin has confessed to in his ongoing reparation efforts… Don latches onto the one that he actually CAN’T use for leverage. Leo knows all about Raph’s girlfriend. In fact, Leo has actively covered for his absence a time or two, even sending him on a few bullshit solo missions that were really just gifts -- opportunities for him to spend time with his girl. He doesn't know why Leo is suddenly down with the idea of him getting laid, but he’s not going to complain. Apparently all turtles are not created equal in that regard. Don and Mike are not getting Leonardo’s blessing for anything of the sort until they can ‘get their acts together’... It's not that he’s decided to make official declarations or write it into clan law, but he has ranted about ‘not wanting to even go there with those two’. The whole conversation had been mandated private once Leonardo seemed to realize he had spoken too freely. He’d reminded Raph again that he was not ready to condone anything openly. He didn't want to deal with any more complications.

It’s all kind of funny, considering what his brother just revealed about his sexuality. _Guess it won't be an issue in Donnie's case, after all!_

“Angel and I are talking again. Cuz we weren't, for a while there… well. We actually started hanging out about five years ago? But it was just flirting and doing normal stuff, for years… well. She was getting into parkour at the time, and I was carrying her up onto rooftops so we could do tricks off the edge of buildings and shit, so… normalish? She needed to spend time with me, get used to -- you know. The whole idea. But just as things were getting serious -- that's when I had to take off! I tried off and on to reach her, the whole week leading up to leaving, but the call wouldn't go through. Bills were piling up, I guess -- her cell service got shut off. After that, I tried to write -- but not soon enough. She was on the street by then. All this terrible shit had gone down... Her life fell apart, basically, and I wasn't there to help for any of it.”

This whole time Raph has just been holding the bowl, not really doing anything with it. He scowls down at it as he realizes this, but still has to get the rest of his thought out. “I don't blame her for hating my guts these past two years. Truth is, I’m surprised she forgave me at all.”

He sighs and abruptly declares, “Can I take this bandage off? Or -- can you make it looser in the fingers? I can't use a lighter for shit with this lobster claw.”

Donatello seemed to take in the information about Raphael’s relationship neutrally, but for someone who knew him as well as Raph did at this point the ghost of a half smile on his face was obvious. The truth was that he was happy for his brother.

While relationships such as the one that the older turtle was engaged in did not seem to be a viable option for the broken genius - it did his heart good to see that some of the clan were able to find such companionship. To know that his brother did not have to feel as alone as Donatello often seemed to. 

Don slid over in the tub enough that he could comfortably begin negotiating the bandage around Raph’s hand, loosening the fabric which had begun to turn an unpleasant shade of grey. In all actuality, the bandage was in good condition, Raph had been doing rather well to keep it as clean as he had. But Donatello’s scrutinizing eyes did not miss the spots where cigarette ash had collected, clinging to small traces of perspiration.

“I am glad you have someone.” he mused as he made sure that the bandage would still serve its purpose while allowing his brother's digits slightly more maneuverability. “Angel is a good kid. She is a lot like you. And if she makes you happy, I am happy for you.”

The purple banded shinobi gently turned his brother’s hand over in his once to inspect his work and make sure he had not loosened the bandage too much. He gave a small nod, mostly to himself, before scooting back to his original position. Clearing his throat, he put on his strictly business, Doctor Don voice before adding, “Also… if you would like I am sure that I can find something… medicinal… to help with your _little problem_.”

“Yeah?” Raph mumbles dubiously. “Cause I already tried Viagra and two others, I forget the names. But none of em worked. Zero boner, not a twitch. Head started ringing like a sonuvabitch though… especially after the Viagra! And it got my sinuses all stuffed up. I think maybe all those drugs are too, I dunno… too aimed at humans?”

The turtle flexes his unbound fingers gingerly. They are stiff from being confined, waterlogged and ugly beneath the bandage. The swollen skin seems to highlight every tiny pebbled scale, every crack and flaw.

_Stop stalling, Jesus! You’ve been holding this bowl forever._

The lighter flares to life. Raph is careful about lifting his whole elbow, bringing the flame close to the bowl without bending his injured wrist whatsoever. He really does care about doing all he can to help it heal.

Donatello shrugged noncommittally as his brother brought the bowl up to his lips to take a hit, the purple banded shinobi musing quietly, “Those drugs are definitely made to cater to humans. I do not know if there is even anything that could act as the equivalent for us… However… It may be possible. I could certainly tinker with the concept to see if I find anything that was effective, if you were interested.”

Raphael actually has not done this in some time. He tries to take a badass hit, forgetting how much more of a kick in the lungs this is going to be, and winds up coughing violently.  
  
“Yeah, okay, shut up,” he croaks pre-emptively, figuring Don will laugh at him. After all, he is already laughing at himself in between hacking his lungs out.

As his mind starts to wander just a bit, Donatello is pulled from his reverie by the hacking cough coming from the ninja at the opposite end of the oversized tub. He chuckles for only a moment before he hears Raphael’s dismissal of any condescension that he may receive due to choking on the smoke. The younger turtle reaches out to grab the pipe, a wide grin on his face.

Marijuana was certainly not Donatello’s drug of choice. There were effects that he did not enjoy and the high was all wrong for him, but an excuse to get actively fucked up without having to go through the painstaking process of hiding the matter from an entire family of shinobi masters was a gift horse and he certainly was not checking its teeth.

He took in another lungful of the burning smoke, casually exhaling it through the slitted nostrils on his olive toned beak before passing it back across the gently rippling water to his brother. When his hands were once again empty the genius terrapin allowed himself to sink into the steaming water up to the ridge of his plastron, contentedly sighing.

“You know… this is really nice, Raph.” he offered the red clad shinobi a genuine smile as the THC settled into him at last, forcing his muscles to relax under the water. “I really needed a night like this.”

Raphael is too stoic to come out and say so, but it's a relief when Don expresses interest in his problem in such a lazy yet professional way, like it's no big deal and he could whip up some results in no time. He knows that he has been a real hack of a doctor and scientist when it comes to this little problem. Looking up treatments on Google, risking his very life with guesstimates.

 _And all for what? Pride_ , the turtle supposes. _And maybe shame... Straight up stole those meds, like just another criminal scumbag. But fer crying out loud, the price for prescription drugs in this country is fucking ridiculous!_ He looked that up on Google too, as part of his preparation for the break in, and the numbers he was presented with were sort of criminal in itself. If his hack doctoring has taught Raphael anything it is a deep suspicion of drug companies.

Raph knows he might have saved himself a lot of quiet struggling and risky behavior. It’s pretty lame that he couldn't talk about this problem sooner.

 _Just like it's lame that Don couldn’t talk about this asexual thing sooner_.

The turtle grins at Don, partly because his brother just expressed pleasure in the excursion. But also because he is thinking: _I guess we have both been pretty lame_.

“I’m glad too. So -- you say this stuff relaxes you?” Raph doesn't ever blush, because he is not some little girl, but every now and then his whole face flushes… fiercely. “The… okay, uh. The one time I tried it. I tried what was probably a stupid lot of it. I came across some high school kids who busted the lock off a maintenance hatch and snuck into the tunnels to smoke. One of em had a bong in his backpack, a plastic one. I watched em do it for a bit, then - heh. It wasn't hard to scare em off without being seen. But I dunno, I think I tried too much of it.”

Raphael’s eyes flash down at the pipe in his hands in a brief reveal of nervousness. “I might have... given myself a pretty bad panic attack that night. I didn't know that's what happened though. For the longest time, I legit thought I almost died from it. I mean, I felt like I wasn't breathing right, like my heart might be stopping. But now… cause of what I have seen in you… that's what I think really happened.”

Donatello had initially given his brother a brief nod in response to the question. It was truly relaxing. However he looked up with interest at Raphael’s story. He had not taken Raph to ever be the kind of guy that would freak out with a bit of pot in his system, but he supposed that it should not have been too surprising. The tough guy act was, after all, just that - an act.

He let out a soft and thoughtful sigh as he began to explain to his brother, “That is definitely not unheard of. THC and any drug, really, can cause a sense of panic in a person. When it comes to cannabis and paranoia, it’s literally all in your head. Cannabinoids (such as THC) bind to receptors throughout the brain, many of which are focused in the amygdala. The amygdala is involved in emotional processing, governing responses such as fear, stress, and paranoia. When THC acts upon the amygdala, it modifies the neural communication for better or for worse.

THC can over excite the neural pathways and lead to anxiety and paranoia, especially in individuals who are new or unaccustomed to cannabis.”

Donatello gave his brother a sympathetic glance and admitted quietly, “I had the same reaction at first, honestly. I had a horrible panic attack the first time that I had tried it. I was about seventeen. Casey happened to have a little bit and curiosity got the best of me. I did my research afterward and then ran a few trials to see if I could change the result. At this point paranoia is so rare that it is almost non-existent.”

“Not that I am a pot-head or anything. I only indulge every once in awhile.” he added with a half smirk.

“For _research_ ,” Raph snorts. “Yeah, Casey tried that with me, too… 'cept I told him no.” His smile flickers away uncomfortably and he glances down to admit, “Guess I'm not usually the ‘researching’ type. Seen too many thug dealers and twitchy, jonesing assholes tryin’ ta make a quick buck. And I worry...” Perhaps it is the look on Donnie's face that halts his words. The turtle grimaces down at the pipe in his hands before deciding, “Forget about it. I worry too much.”

Raphael does a better job this time of manipulating the lighter with his bandaged hand as he puts flame to the cradle of charred buds and sucks in a hit. He grins ruefully as he hands it back and suggests in an airless creak, “Could be there's somethin’ wrong with my ambiggala.”

Donatello listened intently as his brother spoke. It was understandable with their line of work and the things that they had experienced that he would be leary of drugs as a whole. The street ran rampant with dealers and junkies. Most of the latter were withered away, empty shells of their former selves, their skin drawn right across their bones, malnourished and pale, giving them the distinct look of walking death.

“ _And I worry_ …”

Of course Raphael worried about him. How could he not after the undignified displays of mental stability that he had witnessed from the younger ninja? Regardless of the validity of his brother's concern he could not help the flare of contempt that flared beneath his plastron at the thought of his brother thinking of him as someone that needed to be fixed.

The olive skinned shinobi took the pipe back from his brother, his mouth taunt in a subtle but incredibly displeased scowl. The feeling was short lived, however, Donnie had lifted the bowl to his lips, inhaling deeply when he heard his brother's botched attempt at naming the obscure anatomy of the frontal portion of the temporal lobe.

At that point he was not entirely sure if he was laughing or if he was choking. But he did know that his first sudden outburst of air was directly into the pipe, sending ash and embers flying into the air which then rained down on them like autumn leaves falling from the trees.

The coughing and laughing fit did cause the smoke to go straight to his head as he hid his face in the crook of his elbow, a full minute passing before he was able to catch his breath and wheeze an amused, “A for effort, Raph.”

Raphael settles back against the polished tiles, acting a lot more nonchalant about being ridiculed for bad pronunciation than he did about botching his first toke. They obviously have very different ideas about what constitutes an epic fail.

A full minute is a long time to be sitting there watching someone giggle. He just regards the other turtle wryly, one brow ridge quirked. At one point he prompts, “Ya done?” but that only sets his brother off again. He’s not annoyed by this display, just vaguely entertained. But his affection tends towards prickly. “Arright, yer cut off,” he grumbles as he reclaims the pipe from Don.

“Lightweight,” he adds under his breath, not without irony.

Donatello took a few more moments to compose himself as the little glass pipe was snatched out of his bandaged fingers. He then wiped away the moisture that had formed around his eyes with the pad of his thumb, chuckling once or twice more as he did so.

At his brother's comment about cutting him off the genius simply raised his hands in mock surrender, giddily agreeing, “Maybe that is for the best. I cannot deny that I am a bit of a light weight. It has been quite some time.”

The younger shinobi let himself relax, sinking deeper into the water, letting out another soft chuckle and muttering “ambiggala” under his breath.

Raphael certainly isn't feeling panic from the weed, nor is he collapsing into incoherent giggles -- but he’s definitely feeling _something_. A body buzz has crept up on him, warm and tingling. It is impossible to distinguish where the euphoria of being submerged in steaming water ends and the effects of the drug begin. There is an unexpected synergy between the two sensations.

A sudden lack of inhibition prompts him to blurt these next words, spilling out before he knows he will speak. “Thanks for what you said about me and Angel. I hope you’re right, but -- man, I dunno. Sometimes I can’t help thinking we might be way too much alike. Headstrong. Real stubborn. Both gotta temper, y’know?”

Raph is not looking at Don. His gaze is trained down on the pipe in his hands as if studying it intently. “So how can we be anything but a huge disaster? It’s gonna be crazy good and intense, and then turn around like, wham! Zero to World War Three, in sixty seconds…”

Donatello glanced up at his brother as he spoke, his soft chuckles ebbing away, leaving behind only a satiated grin. He brought up one bandaged hand, softly dismissing Raph’s statement with a gentle wave.

“No worries, Raph. I meant it. I am happy for you.” The younger shinobi glanced at his brother through glossy and slightly blood shot eyes and nodded his head as if he were saying something profoundly wise, “You guys are similar. But in different ways. I mean… You are both bull headed and refuse to take most people's shit. But what sets you off is different. Maybe you will balance each other out?”

The young genius then let out another soft chuckle and with his head quirked to the side asked, “You know what sounds amazing? Fucking pizza rolls. With ranch dressing. I haven't had that in years.”

Raph's snout wrinkles as he squints, thinking about it. “Naw, you can keep the ranch dressing. That sounds suspiciously like Mikey Food. But I would eat the shit out of some pizza rolls...”

He tilts his head, going through a mental inventory of what is usually stocked in the mammoth walk-in fridge downstairs. “There ain't any, though. We’d have to put it on the list. They wouldn't even see it until Tuesday, and wouldn't bring it until the Tuesday after that, which is just -- obviously _too fucking long_ , yeah?”

Raphael seems to get an idea as he is putting fire to the nearly cached bowl. His face lights up and he holds up a hand to indicate that Don should wait while he holds the hit a bit longer. Eventually he lets it out and explains in a raspy rush, “But there's frozen pizza! And we could roll the pizza up before we bake it, and make, like... a _literal_ pizza roll?”

Donatello laughed loudly at the accusation that his diet had taken on a few Mikey-esque qualities. It did make some sense to him though, that his tastes would be slightly akin to his youngest brother’s at the moment, seeing as Michelangelo had been a stoner for as long as he could remember. Perhaps it had less to do with taste and more to do with the influence of the cannabis.

The genius terrapin had only pouted at his older brother's admission that the craving could not be satiated, but his eyes lit up, positively sparkling at Raph’s alternative proposal.

“So much yes to this food science!” he exclaimed in a glee that he had almost forgotten his voice could express.

With a sly look he nodded his head to the door, “... _Race you to the kitchen_!”

Before he had even finished speaking the younger shinobi had already begun scrambling out of the tub, splashing water out onto the floor as he launched himself off the edge.

Aww, see, that's not fair! He’s got this lighter and a cached bowl in his hands, and he’s not sure what to --

 _Fuck it._ Raphael doesn't waste time looking for somewhere to stash the items he is carrying, but cinches them with his cleanly bandaged lobster claw. _This is good, actually -- an easy reminder not to put any weight on it._

Relying on his left hand, he still manages to exit the tub like a cannonball. Too bad nobody will be around to see this flashy move. Mikey probably would have pointed out the impressive splash factor. Donnie got the jump on him, and he had sat there blinking stupidly for too long. His brother has surely made it into the bedroom, maybe even reaching the hallway by the time Raphael’s toes hit the bathroom floor.

As he lands, the turtle hesitates another beat to check his balance and the stability of his footing. Then he explodes after Donnie like some kind of incoming demon with a huge and evil grin on its face. Fuck yeah, he wants to race! You kidding? He loves that shit.

He isn't thinking at first, just running for all he’s worth. The hot bath was so rejuvenating, and it feels good merely to flex his natural athleticism. He throws himself heartily into the pleasure of the chase. Quite suddenly it occurs to him that there is another, faster way through the house. He skids to a sudden stop as Donnie reaches the top of the stairs. “Don't get lost!” he advises with a cackle.

The turtle in red backs up and grips some decorative moulding on the wall behind him. He hefts open some kind of passage or escape hatch, and disappears into it. No electronics, nothing at all Sci-Fi about it, just chain pulleys and metal-working. Solid engineering.

The passage seems to go straight down. Raph doesn't bother to use the rungs.

Donatello picked up the pace as he heard his brother’s heavy footfalls behind him. He almost stopped to see where Raph had gone when he picked up Raph’s voice moving in a different direction. However he pushed himself even harder, knowing that he stood little chance of winning if Raph had a shortcut to use.

As he approached the stairway the genius terrapin flipped himself over the railing, planting his feet on the curved wall opposite him. With a heavy grunt he pushed himself forward, using the force to assist him in landing in what was supposed to be a graceful roll to the bottom of the stairs.

In years past it would have been. Donatello had always been a brilliant acrobat, often outshining his brothers with his deft movements and effortless tumbles. However, his severe lack of training as well as his consistently worsening health proved to be quite the detriment to his skills.

The purple clad shinobi caught his shoulder on the lowest stair, his reaction time slowed considerably compared to what he was anticipating. This miscalculation was going to seriously hurt in the morning. But true to his disciplined nature, Donnie followed through with the rest of his maneuver regardless of the pain in his neck and shoulder. He was on his feet and launching himself into the kitchen in the span of a heartbeat.

Still going to be close! Raphael just barely has time to plummet down the elevator shaft, landing with a quiet thump onto the cushioned landing pad which is hidden on top of the old-fashioned but completely functional dumbwaiter. This hidden panel is set in the wall above it.

He doesn't bother to close the hatch behind him, just rockets towards the freezer and snags the pizza. He tries to veil the huffing exertion evident in his breath with only partial success as he adopts a lean against the island counter. Ultra casual pose, like he has been waiting around for hours hoping Don would hurry up. Yeah, he’s just been standing here, entertaining himself by reading about how many carbs are in a frozen pizza.

A whole fucking lot, it turns out. He gives no fucks. Giant pizza roll is happening.

The younger Hamato comes to a skidding halt in the center of the kitchen, his pride bruised about as much as his shoulder will be by the image of his brother casually leaning against the counter like The Fonz on a Jukebox.

He rolled his eyes, dismissing his brothers victory by stating in a matter of fact tone, “You had me at an advantage. Not only did you cheat the terrain, but I went in blind.” The young turtle accentuated his point by tapping the bridge of his nose, which normally supported his thick framed glasses, which were still currently sitting on his pile of clothes in the upstairs bathroom.

This was, of course an excuse. Raphael had won fair and square. Manipulation of the terrain was an advantage. But not cheating. His brother simply had the high ground in the race. He knew that it was more than likely Raphael would have won even had he chosen to take the same path as Donnie. He was simply not the shinobi that he used to be.

While Don had always been a bit of a sore loser he knew when he had been fairly bested. So, before Raph could contest his statement he gave his brother a flash of his gap toothed grin and offhandedly commented, “Well done.”

“I totally cheated!” Raph agrees with obvious pride. He gives up his cool guy act entirely and beams like a little kid. It's not often that he gets any tactical advantage over his brothers, who usually know the terrain better than himself. He isn't nearly as quick about consulting online maps, nor does he have the annoying benefit of a photographic memory. “Terrain advantage, fuck yeah!” he enthuses with a fist pump after setting down the pipe and lighter.

He abruptly drops the grin and tries to adopt a serious business expression as he announces, “But now, we gotta problem! A major kink in our plans. Cuz, as it turns out, frozen pizzas are kinda… _frozen_.” He holds it up and knocks on it, then makes a futile effort in order to demonstrate the problem. “Which makes ‘em hard to fold in half, right? Guess I could try to _break_ it in half… Or, I dunno. There's a blowtorch in the garage?”

Donatello raised his brows at the suggestion, his mouth slightly agape. “A blow torch? While I am always down for some pyrotechnics, me thinks that may be a bit extreme…. Or… is it?...”

The gears in the younger Hamato’s head began turning so quickly it was practically audible. A mischievous glint formed in his crimson eyes as his idea came to fruition.

“We could use the blowtorch to heat a knife red hot. That would allow us to easily slice through the frozen dough. We may even be able to use the heated blade to affix the edges of the pizza together before we bake it. It would ‘technically’ be a calzone and not a pizza roll, but the concept is basically the same… and it would give me an excuse to play with a blowtorch… which never ends badly.”

“Blowtorch calzone,” Raphael tests the concept and seems to think about it for a moment before giving a slow nod. “Has a sort of poetry to it. Challenge accepted. You do the torchin’, and I’ll spot ya. Think I saw a fire extinguisher... somewhere…”

He peeks into a cabinet under the sink, but only sees cleaning supplies. “Maybe in the pantry,” he mumbles to himself with a slight frown. “Whatever. We’ll find one. Not that I don't trust you with a blowtorch, I mean. It's just. It would be smart, right?”

The purple clad ninja chuckled gleefully and have his brother a nod. “It would be quite smart. I have managed to burn down more well constructed buildings than this one. But I will do my utmost to keep the flames where they belong.”

Donnie’s eyes shift upward as if looking through the ceiling before he quietly added, “However, I should probably be wearing my specks first. While you grab the torch I will go get them. Would not be a good start to this adventure to have me blind.”

He quickly turned and headed for the stairs while his brother was distracted, calling over his shoulder that he would be right back.

”Yeah, sure,” Raph agrees in a lazy tone meant to mask his relief. “Do what’cha gotta do.” Normally he is all about wanton destruction, but this place is too sweet to burn down.

The fire extinguisher is recovered from the pantry in short order. He also gets pizzas from the freezer, and -- completely on a whim -- a package of shredded cheese from the fridge. Because the amount of cheese on this frozen pizza does not seem nearly enough, suddenly. Maybe it would be fine if they were eating it like pizza, but this is not a normal pizza. It’s a _blowtorch calzone_ and it definitely needs more cheese.

Donatello glanced over his shoulder as he got to the foot of the stairs to make sure that his brother had not followed him. He hesitated for his a moment before dashing up them two at a time. While it was very true that he was having a good time with Raph, and he very much was; a better time than he could recall having in years, he needed some help to keep up the pace he had set for himself as far as social exertion was concerned.

He quickly made his way into the bathroom, cautiously avoiding the massive puddle of water on the elegant tiles and over to his haphazardly piled mess of clothes. His glasses sat nearly on top, so the turtle placed them on the bridge of his nose and grabbed his leather jacket, fumbling for the pockets.

Within the left pocket was a cleverly hidden seam which opened up into a small pocket, nearly undetectable if a person did not know exactly what they were looking for.

His callused olive fingers pinched the edge of a small silk bag which was his favorite shade of purple. He tugged on the small drawstring and dumped the contents into his palm. Three pills, the contents of which had been diligently measured out and filled by himself. It was not the purest strain of methamphetamine he had come across in his days, but it would certainly suffice for the evening.

The purple clad turtle popped one of them into his mouth, storing the other two back in his secret pocket before depositing the jacket back into his pile of belongings. He scanned the room quickly and saw the haphazardly discarded baggie of weed on the floor by the tub, luckily it was still dry. He grabbed this, hoping that if he got Raph to smoke more that his brother would not notice the oncoming peak which he was anticipating.

With a final glance around the room the genius nodded and dashed back to meet his brother in the kitchen to do some bad ass pyrotechnic cooking.

Soon the pair had reunited in the kitchen with Donatello's ulterior motives accomplished and Raphael none the wiser. They stood before the frozen pizza reverently, with not one but TWO types of extra cheese, and a shiny red fire extinguisher standing by. Of course Raph had to choose the very best knife he could find. This was actually a pretty fun task for him, and he was so absorbed in new discoveries and in-depth comparisons that he didn't notice the extra time it took his brother to return.

“Do you think it'd be too much, putting mozzarella sticks inside the giant pizza roll?” he wonders as he passes Donnie an industrial blowtorch he retrieved from the garage. It consists of a metal nozzle with a trigger attached to a blue canister of propane.

Hefting the expensive Shun carving knife, (which appears to have been forged in the samurai style with a pretty damascus) Raphael gives it a showy left-handed flip. He makes it look effortless. “I can't decide if that would make it Mikey Food, technically, or just.” A higher flip this time, sending the blade flashing end over end, picking up glints of color from the elegant lighting fixtures suspended overhead as it turns.

“I dunno. More awesome?” Raph’s voice creaks higher, hopeful and boyish. He catches the knife and looks over at Don. “But there’s even strips of bacon in there. So I started thinking… _bacon-wrapped_ mozzarella sticks?”

Donatello sauntered into the kitchen, not yet feeling the effect of the drugs he had taken, but feeling lighter and more alert for even just knowing that they were there. A sweet anticipation of that focused energy and numbness of feeling.

He raised his bro inquisitively at his brother’s suggestion. It certainly did seem as if something that should come from his younger brother rather than the brutish turtle in front of him. In response he gave a light hearted shrug and responded , “Well, there is certainly one way to find out.”

He crossed the distance between the two of them and plucked the elegant knife from his brother’s hand and noted, “You will want to start on those if you intend to get them in here. And could you crank that oven to 375°?”

Now came the part that Donatello was most excited for in this experiment. Superheating this knife with the blowtorch. And, for the love of Darwin, that was a beautiful torch. He could not even suppress his nearly manic chuckle as the flame came to life, beautiful shades of red, yellow and blue deftly licking at the surface of the blade which began to glow red hot.

Raphael had just been about to throw the knife again when it was deftly snatched away. His lobster claw lifts reflexively, then aborts back to his side. “Oven, three-seventy-five. Right.”

He is determined to be a good sous chef, or lab assistant, or -- whatever his role is supposed to be, well by God, he’ll do whatever it takes for this Blowtorch Calzone to turn out awesome! The correct buttons are pressed. The preheat indicator lights up and he looks pleased with himself. Obviously Raph hasn't done much cooking in this house prior to tonight.

The turtle opens the fridge and stares at the bacon for several beats before venturing, “Hey, so... it's not like the precooked stuff. It's still pink. Is that gonna be fine? I mean, the oven will get hot. But is that as hot as a pan gets? I don't wanna accidentally eat raw bacon.”

Donatello’s crimson eyes were focused and his tongue placed expertly between his teeth, it was a habit that he had maintained from childhood that he did not even notice himself doing when he was concentrating on something.

He glanced up over the edge of his glasses for a moment at his brother with a look that clearly stated that Don was officially in teacher mode before stating, “I would suggest searing them in a pan before we put them in. If you get them wrapped I can come supervise when I have the back edge of these sealed.”

Don could feel the drugs starting to kick in, the hyper-focus settling in long before The impending numbness would. Each movement of his wrists and fingers becoming more calculated and precise as he took the red hot blade to the frozen pizza in front of him. It sliced through the dough with ease, the cheese almost immediately bubbling around the blade.

_The melted cheese should serve as a decent seal along with pinching this dough together while it is soft. There is, of course, the possibility that the cooking process will separate the edge, rather than sealing it. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to wait until the dough had thawed on its own and become pliable. However, that would have been an additional twenty minutes or so added to this process._

_But, I suppose that the time that it takes to cook the bacon-sticks would give the edges of the pizza time to thaw a bit. Perhaps it will work out after all._

_However, I will simply have to endure and hope for the best results. But I may need to reenact this experiment at a later date with more ideal variables._

Donatello barely noticed that he had been mumbling his thoughts to himself as he carefully took the flat of the blade to the second pizza, cutting it cleanly in half. He glanced at his brother and gave him a soft half grin, “How are those sticks coming along?”

“They're… sloppy as fuck, actually,” Raphael decides with a sigh. As ever, he is his own worst critic. They don't look terrible, but he is dissatisfied enough to pick apart his latest effort and re-wrap it. His second attempt is somewhat less lopsided but far from perfect. “I suppose it's dumb to sweat it when it's going INSIDE the Blowtorch Calzone,” he murmurs to keep himself from redoing it a third time. If he keeps going at this rate, dinner might be ready sometime next week.

This is turning out to be more work than he had counted on, but for once Raph manages not to complain. After all, the whole thing was mostly his idea.

He sets the third bacon-wrapped mozzarella stick down next to the other two, lined up for Donnie’s inspection, then gets to work rolling up the fourth.

Donatello glanced at the sticks that his brother had wrapped and his immediate impulse was to re wrap them, however, he resisted as to spare his brother’s feelings about the sub-par work. Instead he grabbed a pan from the overhead above the stove and set it to heating on the range before joining Raph in his bacon wrapping endeavors.

“They are not awful,” he commented casually as he wrapped the bacon around the frozen and deep fried sticks. “Particularly for having basically only one hand functioning. And I can absolutely forgive the state of them, seeing as I was the one who broke your wrist.”

The genius got through two of the sticks before he realized that he was being a bit too meticulous to be non conspicuous about his current state. Though, that might be a meticulous thought in and itself. Regardless of his doubt, he made sure to wrap the next with what he viewed as a few flaws.

Alas, these efforts are completely wasted on Raphael, who is not fine-tuned to pick up such subtleties even on his best day. He’s become slightly better in his adulthood. But not right now, stoned for the first time in ages, and focusing as hard as he is on achieving culinary mastery over slippery strips of bacon and mozzarella cheese rods.

“Look at this one!” He holds up his fourth attempt triumphantly, and indeed it is damned near perfect.

The younger shinobi looked up over the edge of his glasses at his brother’s wrapped cheese stick, giving him a soft smile and commenting in a way that was far too similar to their father for his own comfort, “Well done, Raphael.”

He cleared his throat quickly, dismissing the thoughts of the old rat before they hit too close to home and dropped his own sticks in the heated pan, the hissing noise they created filling his own silence.

He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his snout with the back of his hand before moving to wash the juices of raw meat from his digits. “I think we are well on our way to at least moderate success, don't you?”

“Moderate success?” Raphael echoes, aghast at this modest estimation of their masterwork calzone. “It's gonna be a thing of motherfucking beauty. Edible poetry, that's what we're shooting for, okay?”

Donatello let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head in amusement as he washed his hands. He definitely had his doubts about how this was going to turn out and he felt his hunger fading more with every second but the younger Hamato could not bring himself to spoil his brother's fun.

“Definitely poetry. The Dickens of stoner food, for sure.” He accentuated his point by flipping a spatula high in the air, catching it in its graceful arc. Don carefully moved the sticks a quarter turn when the flat edge had browned and mused, “Shame that Mikey is going to miss out on this. He would be positively drooling. I doubt he is eating anything as awesome as blowtorch calzones, wherever he is.”

“Nope!” Raph accentuates the end of that statement, popping the ‘p’ for extra emphasis. “If he hadda blowtorch there, they’d probably run him outta town for bein’ some kinda evil wizard. If I had to guess, he’s chowin’ down on rice, rice, and more rice.”

He sends a conspiratorial glance over one shoulder at Donatello before going on to confess, “I dunno how much I was supposed to say, but… fuck it. Leo said Mikey's been sent to Second Earth. Yanno… Furry Japanland? Usagi’s dimension.” He gives a half-hearted shrug before turning his focus back to the sizzling food. “Honestly, I was kinda relieved to hear it. At least he's not all alone on some alien world, right? And that rabbit dude sure knows how to fight.”

Donatello’s eyes had widened at Raphael’s first statement, his stomach dropping at the thought of the dangers that Mikey might be facing right now. But it was nothing compared to the knot in his hit that formed at the realization of what Raph was saying.

He stiffened noticeably for a few moments, but soon began once again poking at the sticks in the frying pan when had begun to crisp.

“We should be grateful that Fearless at least had the decency to not dump him on his own. And bunny boy will help keep Mikey’s trouble to a minimum….” The purple clad shinobi carefully flipped the sticks, glancing over at his brother and quietly asking in a voice that held a subtle edge of worry, “So, you talked to Leo?”

“Yeah, we talked,” Raphael answers Don’s question smoothly, hefting his right lobster claw. “He bandaged this, remember? Maybe not up ta’ _your_ high standards, but he tried.”

Not untrue statements, precisely… and Raph has a strong enough sense of decency to feel bad for the blatant evasion. But he's not so stoned as to forget that Leonardo expected him to keep their second, telepathic communication strictly between the two of them.

Donatello softly said, “Ah.” as as if to acknowledge Raphael’s statement. However, the genius turtle had a far better memory than his brother, not surprisingly. The recollection of the two of them sitting in his lab after Leo had left, unbeknownst to them, came back to his mind’s eye.

_“Leo says at least Mike won’t be trying to deal with everything on his own anymore. But he didn’t say what that means. You don’t think… he wouldn’t mess around with time travel, would he? And send Mike back to when Master Splinter…”_

Raphael did not know where Mikey was then. The two of them had an entire conversation about not knowing where their little brother had been sent.

He was being lied to. His one and only confidante was lying directly to his face.

Donnie said nothing more as quickly turned off the heating range and lifted the pan from the stove. He may have been silent, but his body was tense and agitated as he took the pan over to where their pizza calzones lay waiting on the counter. He deftly scooped the mozzarella sticks out of the greasy pan and inserted them, one by one, into the the pizzas, no longer meeting his brother's eye.

Raph was paying close attention, naturally enough, to determine the success of his deception. He takes in the subtle tells, for once -- Donatello's suddenly wooden posture and fleeting gaze -- and reaches the obvious conclusion.

“Fuck,” he mutters the swear under his breath, looking away and shaking his head, his face flushing with humility and anger. He isn't angry at _Don_ , of course. He’s ticked off at Leonardo for requiring this deception in the first place.

Any buzz he had felt from the marijuana has quickly evaporated with this exchange He is silent and stewing for several beats before looking at Don and blurting, unscripted and desperate, “You know it ain't ever _my_ idea, right? Keeping shit from you and Mikey? Turns out we can communicate telepathically, if we're wearing those necklaces we got after the trials. But don't ask me what all we talked about.” He winds up scowling down at the edible poetry. “I'm a terrible second already, sayin’ as much as I already have.”

“You are Chūnin of the Hamato clan.” Donatello replied in a voice that was slightly too cold to be understanding. The younger shinobi focused his attention on pinching the edges of the calzones shut, still refusing to look his brother in the face, “It is logical that Chūnin and Jonin discuss matters of their clan. It is not my place as a lowly Genin to dispute your right to do so. If I am even considered a Genin of the clan at this point.”

The genius picked up the pan and deposited it into the oven, setting a timer on the gleaming back of the range, finally turning and looking at the red banded figure, “It would be foolish of me to continue with the belief that your loyalty to me would overshadow the responsibilities granted to you by your council and the master of our clan.”

Donnie let out a soft sigh, crossing his arms defensively across his plastron, “I will not ask what you talked about, Raphael. But I am smart enough to know that if your conversation did not include a report on me and the things I asked you not to tell Master Hamato that you would not feel the need to give me such an order. And you would not have tried to hide it from me.”

Raphael grabs his brother by either bicep. His left grip is stronger than his right, thanks to the bandages, but Don can be certain that his intention is to squeeze fiercely with both. “My conversation with _Master Hamato_ did not include anything that you asked me not to talk about.”

His gaze is commanding as he insists, “This I swear to you. And you're crazy if you think you ain't a’part of this clan. Donnie… we’d be lost without ya’. You know what I’m sayin’ is true. You’ve _seen_ it.”

Donatello made no move to fight back against his brother’s grasp. He knew that even when he was at the peak of his physical prowess that he would have been hard pressed to break Raphael’s grip, in his current state and unarmed as he was, it would be a pointless effort. Instead, he narrowed his eyes skeptically.

“I don't believe you. You could have easily just told me that you had a conversation with him about Michelangelo, but instead your aim was to deceive me.” His words were not aggressive but rather they were laced with doubt and mistrust. Far from angry, Donatello merely sounded defeated and tired.

“I am not delusional. I know that you report to our Jonin. And I would have to be an idiot to not realize that you must report about me.”

It is a slap in Raph's face, to swear his vow so formally and solemnly, only to be met with ongoing disbelief. It isn't often that he resorts to fancy, formal oaths, and for a moment his frustration threatens to boil into true anger.

Raphael holds his quick temper in check somehow. Forces himself to stop, to focus, to think it through again. Truly, the trials have changed him.

His expression gradually softens as logic supersedes passion. Donatello, he realizes, does not actually want formalities from him. His brother's use of cold and formal words were like weapons regretfully wielded, and represent the opposite of what he actually requires. Donnie mourns the loss of their casual camaraderie, just as Raph is now mourning it. His reassertion of rank was a grave trespass on their fraternity. The situation suddenly becomes clear.

“You know, I wasn't even supposed to be Chunin tonight. That was the deal.” He still holds Donnie in place, refusing him any retreat. “So… fuck it. Ask me anything. I'll just deal with whatever consequences come from that, because it means too much to me. You mean too much to me. I never put being Chunin over bein’ your brother. Leo and I, we worry about ya. But I never stopped bein’ on your side, and that is the goddamned truth.”

Donatello’s expression softened as Raphael spoke. Instead of worry etched on his features he now merely looked lost and sad, it was almost childlike, but the word Donatello would have used to describe it would just be pathetic. He dropped his gaze, instead focusing on the upper ridge of his brother’s plastron as he spoke.

“What have you told Leo? What do you tell him about me?” he could feel tears beginning to form in his eyes but he did his best to keep them at bay. These weren't the real questions he wanted to ask, but he was having a hard time forming his thoughts into words. He wanted to ask if he and Leo just laughed about his doomsday warnings. If they think he is a mental case. He wanted to ask what Raphael’s true feelings about him were, but the only other question he could manage was, “Do you think I am crazy?”

“Yeah. I do,” Raph says, hitching his brow ridges and starting to smile. “Yer a Hamato, ainchya? We all got fucking issues. But I believe in what you've told me. I dunno how many times I gotta say it before you finally hear me, but… whatever. I believe you. There, I said it again.”

His smile flickers out as he goes on to say, “And I would tell Leo how much I believe you, if you’d let me, but you said to keep it quiet. So I ain't said shit about it, and he's been left to wrack his brain and dream up his own crazy theories about what’s goin’ on with you. What the hell else is he supposed ta’ do?”

Don sniffed sadly, but he was listening to Raph. His brother really didn't want to be a leader tonight. He did not want the ever present threat of the future of their clan to loom over them, at least for this one evening. And Raph believed his experiences were real. The younger Hamato was still not necessarily convinced that his actions were not being reported back to their Jonin, but if Raph believed the things that Don said were true, he owed it to his confidante to at least try to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He lifted one of his bandaged hands to his beak, wiping away the few tears that had fallen against his will, an action that was made a bit difficult due to his brother's still present grip, but he let Raph’s hands remain without challenge, silently appreciating how grounded it made him feel.

He nodded lightly and glanced up into Raph’s green eyes for just a few moments before quietly mumbling, “Alright. I'm sorry, Raph.”

He knew that it was probably not the reaction that his brother wanted, Raphael was likely to want him to profess that he too was trusted and believed, but Don could only muster the small apology. At this point, Don instead pushed forward, wrapping his arms around the larger turtle in a hug, hoping that the gesture could communicate better than his words that he appreciated all that Raphael did to be in his corner.

Raphael finally releases Don’s arms in order to wrap his brother in one of his patented bear hugs. He doesn't say anything, more than happy to let action take the place of any further awkward exchanges.

Raph is never the first to let go when he hugs Don. It is something that Donatello loves about these hugs. They never seem awkward or forced, Raph simply just let's him cling as long as he needs to, and it is always Donnie who grows weary of the prolonged contact first. He is not really aware of how long he has been holding onto the far bulkier turtle until the timer he had set goes off, filling their silence instead with shrill beeping.

Donnie slowly extracts himself from his brother and puts what he hopes is a winning smile onto his face. “Alright, pressing the reset button. This is supposed to be a fun night. Let's get back to that.”

The younger turtle rushes over to the oven and pulls out their food which has turned a pleasant golden brown. Once he set them on the counter he grins at the other shinobi and cheerfully says, “I present, edible poetry!”

It was a bump in the road, one of many to come, he was certain. But Raphael has proven to him on countless occasions to be extraordinarily patient and understanding. If Raph could do that for him, he could certainly give him this night. And Darwin knows that he deserved one night that he was not in charge of babysitting his psychotic little brother.

Donatello knows that half of his disposition is a rouse. But he could pretend to be okay. He could manage to fake it for just this one night, maybe it would help give his brother some hope that they would recover from all of this. Even if he knew that this too, was a lie.

But he was determined to give Raph tonight. He wanted Raphael to have something to look back fondly on when he was gone.


	18. Status Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After witnessing the frivolity of the Aikawa Matsuri, the Jonin of the Neko tribe is given a new task.

Kagemaru had to repress his laughter the entirety of his trek through the shinobi fortress of the Tribunal Council. While he could not deny his mirth at the spectacular shortcomings of the Hamato Genin, he knew better than to let himself appear anything less than professional and impartial to the series of events that he had witnessed, lest the council turn an unfavorable eye towards he and his clan.

He doubted that the clan of disgusting mutants even recalled why he would have any ill will towards their pitiful family, but he was not one to forget so easily. He had nearly completed the task set upon him by Lord Hebi, he had very nearly extinguished the Lord of the Geishu clan. If it were not for the interference of Leonardo and that filthy ronin, he would have succeeded in killing the boy. Instead he had to return to his master and explain how it was that these two and their meddlesome band of vagabonds had infiltrated his stronghold and thwarted his masterful plan.

He had been denied his retribution against the small shinobi clan by the council, who simply blamed Kagemaru for the failure here.

He had certainly not forgotten that embarrassment.

The Neko paused in the wide corridor off of the council’s war room in order to compose himself before walking into their midst. His feline digits came together before him, forming the symbols of RIN and ZEN, as he quietly muttered the incantation of “Kokoro ino ishi”, officially sealing his heart from the waves of emotion that were caused by his sheer delight at the misfortune of the Hamato clan. When his disposition was once again composed he stepped forward, announcing himself to the guard that stood sentinel before the antechamber of the war room, who turned and entered the double doors to inform the elders of his presence.

The cat leaned casually against a pillar, checking the large clock that hung on the far wall. His appointment to deliver his reconnaissance was set for a full ten minutes from now, but he would much rather be early than late.

He did not have to wait the full ten minutes before he was invited into the chamber. The sight that greeted him was the Elders of the Tribunal sitting at the long table at the far end of the room, facing him. Before them, Hamato Leonardo was already seated on one of the soft cushions they provided. Directly beside the turtle was another cushion, this one empty.

The room was far emptier than the last time he had seen them gather. It was devoid of the other Jonin. It would seem that, from here on out, this was merely a matter for the wisest among them.

The Neko approached them silently, offering a deep bow to his true masters. He did not move to take the seat that was obviously left for him, not wanting to come across as presumptuous, but rather straightened himself and offered in a silly silky smooth voice, “Thank you, masters, for your speedy reception. I have done as was asked and followed the movements of the Hamato Genin, Michelangelo.”

“Take a seat, and tell us what we need to know, Kagemaru, Jonin of the Neko Clan.” The instructions were spoken by Elder Kouyo, the oldest and most wizened looking shinobi he had ever seen. Regardless of his age, Kagemaru did not for one moment assume that this man was one who could be trifled with. He alone could likely wipe his clan from existence without breaking a sweat.

The cat sat down, respectfully mirroring the lotus position of the Jonin beside him. “I followed the young shinobi and his ronin guide as they made their way South along the coast. Their intentions, it seems, are to head directly to the Geishu province to seek the counsel of one of the Lords of our land known as Noriyuki. Foreigners are forbidden in our lands without direct permission of a Lord, so for the time being the boy has taken up the guise of impersonating Leonardo, Jonin of the Hamato clan, who has been employed by Noriyuki in the past.”

He turned his head slightly to take in the reaction of the Jonin beside him. The blind turtle’s face was nearly unreadable, but there was the faintest of smiles that played along the edge of his beak, apparently satisfied with the practicality of the plan. But, the Neko was not done yet.

“ _However_ …” he continued as he shifted his eyes back to the Elders in a voice that very nearly resembled concern, “Their path has not been straightforward. The pair had decided to stop in the port city of Niigata to restock their supplies. There was a matsuri at hand and they indulged in its frivolity _quite recklessly_. In the time that I tailed them the pair proceeded to imbibe several bottles of sake, by the end of the festival the Genin was in such a stupor that he could scarcely hold himself upright. He had to be dragged back to their lodgings by the ronin. Their presence was certainly noted in the city.”

The Jonin paused for a moment for dramatic effect before adding, “And… it would seem… that the Hamato Genin has also taken a _romantic_ interest in the samurai. Throughout the evening, particularly as he drank more spirits, he began… for lack of a better word, pawing at the ronin. Quite insistently. The actions were not indulged but nor were they rebuffed. I fear that the Hamato Genin may be losing focus on his trials in favor of more… _pleasurable pursuits_.”

The cat then bowed apologetically and continued, “Many apologies if it is not my place to speculate. It is my job to report only facts. Interpretation should be left to those far wiser than me. I am sorry to have overstepped.”

A woman at the end of the long table held up her hand to quiet the shinobi Jonin, giving him a hint of a smile, “Your insights are welcome, Kagemaru. You are, after all, the one who has seen the boy first hand.”

She turned to look along the table, a dressing her fellows, “This can be used to our advantage. Having one whom he cares dearly for in his path. The samurai could be utilized in his tasks. The boy must still complete Courage, Humility and Selflessness. We now have a damsel to put in distress to let his courage shine bright.”

“Would that be true Courage? Or merely his _desire_?” The reply came from a man seated next to Kouyo.

The next reply came from Kouyo himself, “Whatever the task we set before him, we must assure that it is Michelangelo’s courage and not that of the ronin that prevails. It would seem, from what I know of the hare, that he would have to be incapacitated to not be the first to show the mettle of his courage; is this correct, Hamato?”

The reptile beside him had tensed considerably, not enough for Kagemaru to accurately assess his reaction to the information he had presented. But it was certainly enough to know that the Jonin was uncomfortable with how this report had played out.

“Miyamoto Usagi is courageous to a fault. He would charge headlong into danger without a second thought if it were for the benefit of another, whether he considered them friend or foe.” the reptilian shinobi master said quickly in a voice that was even and calm. “While this is true, Michelangelo is _not_ lacking for courage of his own and-”

Before he could finish his thought, he was cut off sharply by the severe looking female, her impatience almost palpable, “But do you feel, as his Jonin and brother that Michelangelo would look first to the leadership of this Samurai to dictate his actions in a crisis? Would it be Michelangelo or the ronin who lead them forward courageously?”

The reptile let out a soft sigh and paused as he gathered his thoughts before retorting, “It is more likely that Usagi would lead the charge.”

She met the answer with a sneer that could cuddle fresh milk, “Then it is obvious that the ronin must be, at least temporarily, out of action to allow Michelangelo the opportunity to pass his trial of courage.”

At this, Kagemaru spoke up once again, “The path the pair have chosen will take them near a forest known as The Tangled Skein, it would be easy enough to divert their path directly through it with a little prompting. It is widely known as a place where spirits roam freely. The paths are labyrinthian and it would be child's play to separate the two there.”

Kouyo nodded briefly, “This would leave Michelangelo on his own in unknown territory. It would be quite easy to test his courage among the yurei of the forest realm. It may even give us a chance to see the boy’s proclivity with mysticism first hand.”

Kagemaru noted the way that the face of the turtle paled, obviously worried about how this trial would play out for his brother and the vagabond rabbit. The Neko, however, saw only possibility. After all. The best way to get to your enemies is from within their midst.

He was broken away from his train of thought as Kouyo spoke once again, “It is decided then. We shall steer the pair towards this forest. Once inside, we shall begin Michelangelo’s test of Courage. Jonin, you are excused.”

He nodded and stood, matching the turtle’s pace as the both of them left the the chamber, halting side by side outside of it’s doors.

“Best of luck to your clan, Hamato. I certainly hope that your Genin’s trial is a swift and successful endeavor.” He said with a sickly sneer that very clearly said that his hopes were not in line with his words, but regardless, appearances of politeness must be maintained.

“Domo Arigato, Kagemaru. I am certain that Michelangelo will excel in this trial.” The Neko had hoped that he would have gotten a reaction that told more as to how affected the reptile was by the news of his brother’s perversions and recklessness.  However, he had to make due with his muted facade and forced smile that was given to him.

No need for worry though, there was still plenty of time to plant the seeds that would flower into rifts of disdain in the Hamato clan. And Kagemaru would have front row seats to watch their clan crumble. With his happy thought in mind, he reopened the portal to his world and bid the turtle adieu.


	19. The Tangled Skein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Within the overgrown, labyrinthine paths of the Tangled Skein Michelangelo's courage is put to the test.

The merchants who owned the caravan of spices they were hired to defend were a noisy and crude bunch, not at all the type of people Usagi liked to be hired by. Idiotic young sons of a rich merchant, full of young blood and testosterone. It was aggravating to even be around them, let alone make conversation. So, the ronin contented himself with stoking the fire, sipping slowly at the hyotan gourd of sake that he had procured in Niigata.

As he lifted the bottle away from his lips he gave it a gentle shake, it was already about half empty. Far more of the drink gone than he anticipated there would be at only four days on the road, but he found that he simply did not care.

He looked up from the dancing flames as one of the boys tackled another, the pair rolling in the dirt in a playful wrestling match. He merely rolled his eyes and looked longingly at his bed roll, cursing the gods that he had offered to take first watch once the crew finally went to bed.

Mikey is quiet too. He’s normally adept at making friends but that has been tough with this crowd. Thus far he has only found one of the caravan party worth talking to, the merchant's third-born son Mitsuo. This turned out to be a fairly unoriginal name meaning “third-born son”, but the guy said several things earlier in the day which made him laugh, a fact which immediately makes him okay in Michelangelo's book. However, Mitsuo is currently embroiled in some kind of gambling game with people who have already been written off as jerkwads, so Mikey has no desire to join in their merrymaking. Also, he has no coin with which to gamble so he probably would not be welcome in their circle in any case.

Thus, he sits alone, close to Usagi but not disturbing his companion, occupying himself with his journal and sketchbook. Usagi himself is the current subject of his charcoal etching. He is capturing the image of bare-chested Usagi ruthlessly punishing a tree. Mike peaks over at his friend only occasionally for reference, but for the most part it has been burned into his memory.

The ronin corked his bottle and tied it once again to his belt, sighing softly as he made the decision to cut himself off for the evening, regardless of his boredom and irritation. He was far beyond ready to be rid of the companions that he and Michelangelo had acquired, but it was still another three days to their destination at the pace they were going. It was a distance that, were it just Mikey and himself, they would cover in a single day with enough time to check into an inn for the night.

He glanced over at his companion, thinking to strike up a conversation with him, but noted that the boy was completely engrossed in his journal. He had learned in the past weeks of traveling with the young shinobi that it was best to not interrupt him when he had begun any kind of creative endeavor, as the project was not likely to be finished or revisited once Michelangelo’s mind had wandered from it.

He decided, after many more minutes of silently staring into the flames, to pull out his daisho and begin sharpening the blades. The repetitive motions were ones that Usagi had gone through countless times in his life. He found comfort in the familiar act, one which he could lose himself in, for a time.

It was not until the last merchant had bid them a good night that Usagi looked up from his task and turned, finally, towards the turtle beside him and addressed the boy in a kind, albeit tired voice, “Mikey-san, you should try to get some sleep, my friend.  I will watch over our camp while you rest.”

Michelangelo is sometimes difficult to drag away from his sketchbook when he is going full swing, but that does not seem to be the case tonight. All the fun parts of this sketch have been completed, anyway. The stance is perfect, and all the pretty muscles and the turmoil is alive on his face, and the eyes… he used a bit of the red ink to accent them, so that they burn on the page.

Mikey feels a swell of pride in the way he has captured the rabbit warrior. He can't help it! He knows the proper thing for an artist to do is brood over his work and loathe it, but -- come on. Okay, the background is super minimalist and lazy, and he can't be bothered to make the fabric folds of his friend’s anime pants super intricate, but _those eyes..._ The turtle gives his work one last appreciative sweeping glance and can't help thinking to himself that the eyes especially came out pretty sick.

It isn't until he glances up at Usagi that it occurs to Mike to be shy about what he drew. It was, after all, a rather personal moment. The emotion is too raw, perhaps -- the subject matter too dark. Usagi himself has suffered dark moods on and off this past four days, and the young shinobi worries about unintentionally fueling his friend's unhappy condition. It's not that he has been actively rude to anyone, as far as Mike can tell, just -- isolated and often far away.

It's quite enough to draw him up and away from any further tinkering with the sketch. He ticks a small smile and bobs his head, not so much of a nod as an extremely informal bow. He is picking up the ways of the people who surround him in Usagi's world, slowly but surely.

His gaze flicks towards Usagi's gourd of booze unintentionally, noticing it but not feeling it is his place to say anything. Usagi is certainly the more seasoned warrior between the two of them -- more seasoned than anyone here, probably -- and it's not like Usagi’s behavior is unique. Mike was surprised to learn how fond these people are of their sake. Every member of their small caravan seems to possess his own stash of the stuff, whether sipped from traveling gourds, clay jars, or even the delicate porcelain vases favored by the wealthy brothers.

It humbles Mike, just a little. Back home, after all, wasn't he supposed to be the “party dude”, always down for whatever? But apparently, it’s normal here for folks to get their drink on every single night! The turtle isn't used to that, but he is trying to be cool, trying to roll with it. He has even helped Usagi deplete that gourd more nights than not, but not every night. Not tonight, with a muse burning in his fingertips. His work -- particularly his writing -- inevitably turns into sloppy, maudlin crap whenever he gets shit-faced.

Usagi nodded briefly to acknowledge Mikey’s agreeance to his request, then lifted his arms above his head to stretch the muscles in his shoulders and neck. It was bound to be a long couple of hours before it was finally his turn to drift into, what he hoped, was another dreamless sleep. A stretch of time that would seem even longer now that he could no longer preoccupy himself by sneaking glances at his friend’s artwork between the swipes of his whetstone upon his blade.

What he saw of the picture was quite good, there was no denying the shinobi's talent. But it definitely stirred up the feelings of that moment. His hurt and betrayal. The desire to drown out those feelings had definitely surfaced, but he managed to quell them, for the time being.  He also felt a pang of shame that his display on the first morning Michelangelo was in his world was such an embarrassment that his companion felt the need to immortalize it in ink.

Michelangelo blinks at Usagi, and all it takes is that one terrible look before the turtle moves to stow his sketch book back into his pack with swift obedience -- swifter than Leonardo has managed in years, one might add. He is notorious lately for blowing that one off in particular, usually with a half-handed _“I’m almost done!”_

This time it is guilt that is making him hasten more than the strength of Usagi’s command on him. Not that he would _mind_ being commanded by the ronin, oh no! But right now, Mike is cursing himself for an imbecile and imagining Raphael giving him a gruff lecture. _Don't be a moron. Course he ain't gonna wanna see himself like that. Shit’s still too raw._

And he can hear something else Raph had said to him, not long before he had left to begin his trials. _You gotta learn when to give a guy some space! I mean, clearly he’s beggin’ for it. Don't barge over and say something stupid, okay?_ Of course, he had been talking about Donnie at the time… but those particular words still totally fit his current situation!

Dwelling was not something that Usagi wanted to do, even if he had become prone to melancholy and swift to anger as of late. But his circumstances made it a constant battle to pull his mind’s eye from the past. Only in the moments where his body was warmed, and his mind swam from the sake he drank did he feel relief from it.

The ronin settled his back against a tree, a short distance from the fire. He was close enough that he could easily move to tend to it, but he was given a good vantage point of the entirety of their camp while concealed in the tree line.

Mikey doesn't bunk up in the trees anymore. Since their departure from Niigata he has preferred to lay his bedroll on the ground, near the fire -- and nearer to Usagi, if he is being honest with himself.

Also, it has occurred to Mike that it would probably strike the rest of the caravan as weird. Or worse, maybe not weird at all. They would dismiss it and assume that his treewalker skills are a Barbarian Foreigner Thing rather than a Ninja Thing. A Ghost of the Jungle Thing, really. It was “Master Yokai” who drilled these abilities into him and Raph, specifically in preparation for the Five-Fold Path, after all.

He lets Usagi take first watch, though it doesn't come easily, and he rather doubts his ability to sleep. But the growly wisdom of his brother, half imagined, and half remembered, is still ringing in his head. Mike stretches out on the bedroll and looks up at the dark clouds and the patches of stars between them. Back home he would fall asleep listening to music, but these people would probably freak out if he busted out his mp3 player and headphones. _Wouldn’t it be something, if Raph really did know about his mega crush on Usagi, and he was completely cool with it? Wouldn't it be something, if Usagi really WAS commanding -- like, in the **bedroom?** _

There nothing for him to hear but the nighttime sounds of insects whirring in darkness, and the raucous laughter of gamblers in a tent nearby. There is nothing for him to do but stare at the sky and think and think and think about absolutely everything.

Usagi whiled away the time by poking at the fire between bouts of stargazing and listening to the sounds of life from within the underbrush around them. It did not take long before he regretted volunteering for the first watch. He should have allowed someone else to take it so that he did not have to be alone with his thoughts. At least he was able to escape them in sleep; some nights, that is.

But now, the hare found his mind drifting to that morning. The rage that he had felt at Leo. The betrayal and the hurt.

In all of their years together, Usagi had never done anything to deserve that kind of treatment from the young shinobi. He had never done anything but try to love the boy.  Which, now he knew, was a problem in and of itself. On Leonardo’s world, he would be seen as nothing more than a predator who had taken gross advantage of him in his youth.

He had never meant to hurt him. He simply had not known how different things were there. If he had, he would have waited. He would have urged Leo more than he had to talk to his brothers and father about his feelings. He would have protected him, even from himself.

But, the fact of the matter was that he had not known. Leo had never told him that what they were doing was wrong where he was from. How was he supposed to know?

The ronin let out a sigh and wished that he had not already told himself that he was cut off for the night. Now, more than any time this far tonight, he wanted a drink. But there was nothing for it. He had responsibilities to uphold.

When he glanced up at the camp again the ronin felt something instantly amiss. He could not hear anything, save for the breathing of his companions and his own crackling fire. There was no rustle of wind, not even the sound of a cricket split the air, as if all the life had been drained out of the world around them. It was unnatural and set him on edge.

The samurai stood from his vantage point, slowly drawing his daisho and narrowed his eyes into the shadows that hung thick around them. He moved in the direction that he knew Michelangelo had set up his own bedroll. Each step was measured and soft, as if the ronin did not dare to break the silence with his steps on the fallen leaves.

When he stood in front of his friend’s blankets the ronin said in little more than a whisper, “Michelangelo… something is wrong.”

The last word had scarcely left his lips when a whizzing sound filled the air. Shuriken were launched into their camp, one sticking into a tree close enough to the ronin that he could feel the disturbance of wind on his face as it passed him.

Mike sits up quickly, his eyes popping wide in his alarmed face. “I know, dude! The cr--iiee!”

He’s not really freaked out about the Kree, or any other comic book villains. Mike had just been about to point out that the crickets had stopped chirping, and the laughter from the nearby tents had all gone silent - one after the other, he’s pretty sure, but in quick enough succession that he was still trying to determine whether or not his paranoid imagination was getting the better of him.

There was no time to warn Usagi about any of this. A more pertinent warning flies from his mouth, pitched embarrassingly high. “More incoming!”

The nunchaku come out with a flash, not spinning yet but held ready. He sets his shell towards the projectiles instinctively and scans the darkness over his shoulder, hunting for their foes. But the unseen assailant is not aiming for Michelangelo.

Usagi brought his daisho slashing in front of his face as he turned on the spot, managing to successfully deflect the onslaught of shuriken and crossbow bolts that had come whizzing in his direction. The ronin tried to pinpoint the direction that they were coming from, but the barrage of missiles seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. His first thought was to protect his charge, knowing that if Michelangelo were killed on his watch, not only would he lose a dear friend, but Leonardo would never forgive him for his incompetence.

As he fought off the projectiles in a flurry or of steel against steel his first intention was to make his way to Mikey, get back to back with him to better protect the both of them. But it was then that he noticed that none of the shots were being directed at the turtle.

This seemed to be an attack on him and him alone at least for the time being. If he had not lived the life he had, he might have wondered who he had pissed off enough to warrant this dishonorable attack. However, he was Miyamoto Usagi, which meant the list of people who would not consider this attempt on his life to be entirely justified was a far shorter list.

He had wasted too long checking on Mike, his distraction allowing a shuriken to blast through his defenses and sink into his shoulder, drawing a vicious growl from the samurai and shout of, “Okubyōmono! **(cowards)** ”

“Usagi!” Mike cries, too upset at the sight of their enemies drawing blood on his friend to remember his honorifics. He gets the 'chucks spinning now as he leaps into motion, sprinting forward to confront whoever had the nerve to do it.

And to think, he has been suffering from boredom these past few days and even _hoping_ for some kind of action. But he had been expecting bumbling bandits, not well-coordinated ninja. In none of his imagined confrontations did the ronin get hurt!

Usagi blocked a few additional shots before his keen ears heard the softest shift of leaves from his left. With a single glance he caught sight of one of the shinobi partially obscured behind a tree, barely visible in the shadow. The ronin gave a fierce growl and ripped the shuriken from his shoulder, crimson blood soaking the sky-blue fabric of his kimono. Usagi narrowed his eyes and launched the weapon at the cat, who fell with the glint of steel between his eyes which shone in the firelight.

As the warrior fell, two figures dropped from the trees, engaging him from both flanks. The hare snarled as he parried with both wakazashi and katana.

“Run!” he shouted fiercely between blows, “Mikey, get out of here!”

“Run? _Seriously?_ ” Mike’s been obedient for the most part since this journey started, but this is one order he is having trouble following. He _had_ been running, but only to confront them. He knows that is not what Usagi wants, so he skids to a halt and protests, “I got hired as a guard too! It's our _duty_ to stop these clowns!”

The ronin growled at his companion and shouted back as he slashed one of the shinobi through his neck, “Is it _IMPOSSIBLE_ for a Hamato to listen!?”

Usagi brought his wakizashi upward, thrusting the blade into the second shinobi’s jaw, spinning swiftly into a position beside the turtle. While, yes, he was irritated that the turtle did not need his order, he was also glad to have back up. Michelangelo was not a child and perhaps it was time the samurai was able to see what the turtle was made of.

He held his swords aloft, waiting for further indication where their enemies were, but did chance a whisper to his friend, “Between you and I, I doubt that we are getting paid.”

“Shyeah, that's fair,” Mikey agrees, adopting a defensive stance and keeping his gaze trained on their surroundings. “Story of my life, really.” Getting paid would have been pretty sweet, but the vast majority of his ninja butt-kicking to date has been pro bono.

Three figures leap at them, and the first two do not hesitate to engage Usagi in a swift exchange of blades. The third holds back, waiting to be sure his underlings will not be immediately slaughtered by the ronin before centering on Michelangelo and drawing a pair of sai. He shifts them to a more aggressive grip and purrs, “Hello, Mikey.”

“Mitsuo!” The turtle is shocked to recognize the one who had made a good impression on him earlier.

“You should have run,” the ninja informs him calmly. The hint of regret in his tone is somewhat negated by the sharpness of his feline canines.

 Usagi has become a whirlwind of blades as he faced off against the two shinobi who had engaged him. As the cats matched him blow for blow the hare began thoroughly enjoying the exchange - it had been far too long since he had a good fight and he was not short of pent up rage to work out. Who better than these devilish rogues to receive all of that fury that had been building within him?

When the two warriors had fallen, he saw no fewer than ten who had shifted from their places in the trees to take their places. He let out a fierce, “Ryyyah!” as he charged forward into their midst, daisho leading the way.

Mikey doesn't let himself be intimidated by the taunt. He can't seem to land more than a glancing blow on his opponent. The guy is pretty fast. “What do you want? Are you guys trying to rob the caravan?”

“Hah,” Mitsuo, or whatever his name truly is, seems amused by this notion. But apparently, he is not such an amateur villain as to wax verbose about his motives in the middle of a fight.

They wind up grappling at one point and the shinobi executes a clever throw, but Mike rolls and makes it back to his feet. Almost immediately the cat is back in melee range and coming at him with such speed that he can no longer banter. He is holding his own, it seems, but it takes all of his attention.

What he doesn't realize is that all three enemies are working to drive Mike and Usagi further apart.

Usagi does not realize that he is being herded. He is too lost in the thrill of the fight, the clash of his daisho against the blades of his enemies. The sounds of combat, the slicing of flesh as his blades bit into the shinobi warriors. He did not realize, that is, until the Neko had lead him into the tree line, far away from Michelangelo.

The warriors knew that there would be casualties in this fight, but they knew that a far worse fate awaited them if they failed to execute the plan laid out for them by Kagemaru.

When the ronin had finally broken out of the clearing, the shinobi took their opportunity. Chain whips shot out at the veteran warrior, two of the three managing to find their mark. He growled as he fought against the bonds, but the samurai was soon swept off his feet, hitting the forest floor with a resounding thud. He scarcely had time to shout a few choice pieces of profanity before he was dragged further into the darkness and away from their camp.  

“Ah-ha!” Mike makes a gleeful sound as one of his attacks strike home, crunching down on his opponent’s off-hand hard enough to break a couple finger bones and disarming one of the sai. “I’ll take that, thanks!” He snatches it up and gives it a strong toss. The weapon sails into the darkness overhead and thumps to the ground far out of reach.

This move earns a genuine scowl from the assassin, who apparently cares more about lost weapons than broken bones. He resumes the attack on Mike, but caution and reluctance are now evident where before there had been only confidence and grace.

Mike is pleased to see the tide of the fight turning in his favor. He’s expecting the guy to give up soon. Clearly his heart is no longer in this fight, and the turtle has danced this dance often enough to expect his foe to surrender or flee any second now.

What the shinobi does instead is rather puzzling. “Enough!” he calls out, and it takes Mike a moment or two to realize that this word is not directed at _him._ The Neko warrior throws something on the ground between them, and the resulting tiny explosion is startling. It's not the blast itself so much as the unreasonable brightness of it, bright enough to set his retinas on fire. He flinches, and his hands come up to try and shield the glare involuntarily.

The light show is already over by the time his hands are fully raised, but the after effects linger on in the form of holographic spots obstructing his vision and tears streaming down either side of his face.

The night once again becomes still, unnaturally so. The sound of slashing swords has long faded as has the last sounds of life ebbing out of the shinobi littered along the forest floor, their blood saturating the ground in crimson gore. The Hamato warrior had been left completely alone in the sputtering firelight.

Roused by the sound of battle and the smell of blood in the air, the yokai of the forest realm began to stir. The wind howled softly, carrying with it the sound of pained sobs, mournful and distant, then laughter, childlike and soft. Sounds which passed through the clearing bringing with them vicious chill.

Shapes began to shift in the shadows of the trees, long dormant spirits who could not resist the death and fear in the air. Nor could they resist the lone warrior who had wandered into their midst.

**_“_** _Miiiiiiiikey…. **”**_ , came the call from the forest. _**“** Mikey, do come and play **.”**_

**_-_ ** **0-0-0-**

The ronin growled fiercely as he was pulled through the underbrush of the forest, branches and rocks tearing at his kimono and biting into his skin. He was able to dig the blade of wakazashi into the ground, slowing his momentum momentarily, only to be met with a sharp bite as the chain whips on his ankles tightened around his extremities.

The shinobi who drug him were relentless, no matter the resistance that he offered, they did not sway their course. It seemed to drag on for many minutes, but then as abruptly as he was captured, the pulling stopped, leaving him breathless and dirty on the forest floor.

In a flash he was back on his feet, his daisho in his hands, which he immediately began slashing at the felines who surrounded him. Several of them called for him to stop, but the hare was seeing red, determined to spill their filthy blood. He charged forward, his blade missing the throat of one of those shinobi at the last second, the steel ringing against the dagger of an all too familiar tabby.

Usagi snarled at the cat and leaped backward, dislodging his weapon from the ninja’s, intending on leaping forward to engage anew. He did not get the chance, however, as Kagemaru disappeared in a brilliant flash that left him temporarily blinded. The ronin dropped into a crouch, closing his eyes against the distraction and instead strained his ears for the subtle sounds of movement around him.

The sound that met him was not what he had anticipated. Every muscle in his body was poised to defend himself while fighting blind. His nerve endings were on fire from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest. He had been expecting the shift of grass and wind as the Ninja launched themselves at him, he had expected the sound of shuriken as they cut through the air. The sound that he heard instead was far more disconcerting: Kagemaru chortling from much further off than he had been only moments before.

“One would think that you wanted your charge to fail his trial. Seems a shame, but yes. Please do continue to interfere, mongrel.” The words were spoken in a voice that was velvety smooth with satisfaction. The tone was nothing compared to the wicked and venomous grin that played about the lips of the Jonin of the Neko.

This was not enough to sooth the veteran warrior, he knew all too well the nature of vile shinobi intrigue. There were many ways that Kagemaru could have learned of Michelangelo’s trials. They could have been followed and a scout had relayed information that he overheard or, less likely but still a possibility, seeing the circumstances that surrounded Mike at the moment, the boy's situation could be the focus of gossip among the prevalent shinobi clans throughout the multiverse.

He did not lower his swords or shift from his stance, but the hare did blink several times, readjusting his eyes to the dim light of the forest. Twenty feet or so in front of him the feline warrior leaned casually against a tree, holding out a scroll in his outstretched paw.

“Here. If you do not believe me, then come take it. But know that you are completely surrounded and grossly outnumbered. Should you make any move against me, you will die before you can strike. You have been warned, long ears.”

There was nothing within the ronin that wanted to trust the shinobi in front of him. However, the idea of his actions ruining Michelangelo’s chance for redemption was enough to stop his assault. The hare sheathed a single sword, reaching out his now free paw to take the scroll that was offered to him. With a flick of his wrist he unfurled the parchment to reveal the neatly drawn calligraphy within.

He took a step back from the feline warrior and glanced at the document which laid out specific requirements and guidelines for a trial of Courage, stating that the Genin Michelangelo Hamato of the Hamato Clan was to be thrust into an environment that would adequately strike a sense of terror necessary to allow him to demonstrate a true act of courage. This was to be overseen by the Neko Clan, with Kagemaru at its command.

His disbelief was not quelled when he first read it. This seemed like exactly the sort of shinobi trickery that he had come to expect from the clan of wiley feline assassins. He thought momentarily of engaging in battle once again, trying to gain the upper hand on Kagemaru and go down in a blaze of glory while taking as many Neko with him as he could manage, that is, until he saw the bottom of the scroll. There, inked in all too familiar penmanship, the signature of Leonardo Hamato, Jonin of the Hamato Clan.

The sight of the graceful looping letters, the same ones that had adorned the bottom of so many letters addressed to him were enough to cause a stabbing regret in his chest. How many months had passed since he had received one of those letters?

The ronin finished reading the letter and cocked his brow as he lifted his gaze towards the cat. Anyone in their right mind would have been terrified in his position, separated from his companion, and surrounded by at least three dozen highly skilled warriors who have made it abundantly clear on countless occasions that they all would love to see him dead. However, for Usagi Miyamoto, the events of his night had hardly even been a deviation from the norm.

“A few kittens hiding in the trees is how you intend to…” he lifted the scroll to his eyes once again and read aloud, “... ‘ _strike a sense of terror_ ’ into him? That is underwhelming. I would have expected something at least _mildly_ creative from you. You seem to have lost your touch in your old age, Kagemaru.”

The Jonin tilted his head to the side and replied to the Samurai in an unamused drawl, “Are you thick? Or are you just plain stupid, mongrel? The boy is not here to cross swords with the Neko, he will be faced with the true horrors of the Tangled Skein. Even someone as incredibly dim witted as you must know of what I speak.”

“Yokai.” the response was spoken in little more than a whisper, his eyes growing wide as realization dawned on him. The hare turned on the spot, looking back in the direction from which he was dragged, every fiber of his being telling him that he needed to find his companion.

As if he had sensed this, Kagemaru stepped forward until he was directly beside the Samurai. He let out a soft sigh and addressed the warrior beside him, “While I would love watching you charge headlong into a forest stocked to the teeth with soul consuming monsters --and, believe me, I would -- I cannot allow you to interfere with this trial, ronin. There are laws that far exceed any quarrel I have with you. We are, for the time being, on the same side. We have both been charged with and are honor bound to see the Hamato Genin through these tests.”

Usagi let out a soft sigh, internally screaming in frustration at the fact that Kagemaru was correct. If all that the filthy shinobi was saying to him was true, the two of them had no choice but to work together while they made sure that Michelangelo made it through these insane tests. Both of them seeking honor, though what that meant to each of them greatly differed.

The ronin turned abruptly to face the Neko, not missing for an instant the way that Kagemaru’s hand twitched toward the weapon on his belt at the sudden movement from Usagi. He spoke quickly, wanting this entire experience to be done and over with as soon as earthly possible, “If I find that you are lying to me, Kagemaru, you can be rest assured that you will die at my hands. You and as many of your men as I can manage to destroy before I am cut down. Do not test me on this. Now, what is it that we need to do?”  
  
The calico smiled a venomous grin that showed all of his teeth before lifting his hands in a display of feigned surrender, “My dear Usagi, I am wounded that you would think I would lie to you. Now, come along...” Kagemaru moved swiftly, wrapping an arm around the hare’s shoulders before physically prompting him in the direction of the Neko camp. “Our task is a simple one. We simply need to sit back and watch the show. So, have a drink with me, or judging by your recent behavior, many drinks and let us go cheer on our young friend as he fights his way through the denizens of the lower planes.”

**_-0-0-0-_ **

By the time Mike's vision has cleared the ninja he had been fighting is nowhere to be seen. And it's not just him -- _everyone_ alive has vanished. Okay, that is just eerie. He looks back towards the camp and can only see unmoving lumps of dead bodies and the tattered remains of the caravan’s camp. A pang of grief goes through him, and only now does he think to cry out for his companion. “Usagi-san?!”

Mike strains, hoping desperately to hear the ronin’s answering call, or even that distinctive battle cry of 'Ryyaaah!’  At the same time, he is dreading and half expecting to hear more taunts from the cat ninja or whoever is out there putting on a spooky voice and trying to scare him. Silence reigns for several beats as he stands immobile, his heart pounding and braced for the worst. The wide world around him seems to be holding its breath.

_Breathe._ He hears his big brother’s voice telepathically, patient and commanding. No big deal, though. Michelangelo imagines hearing his brothers all the time. It's been his primary coping method for the better part of a year.

He fills his lungs with air, mindful and steady breaths. It helps. His head clears, and his feet can move again. “Fuck that noise! If anybody back there is alive, they’re gonna need my help!”

Turning, he jogs back to the campsite and flings back the opening of the large tent where the rowdy gamblers had been laughing such a short time ago. Now the tent is filled with corpses. Throats grin at him, all wearing near-uniform slashes and bibs of bright red blood. Mike grits his teeth and backs out the way he came.  

Then, as the turtle turns back towards the forest, he hears it again.

**_“_** _Miiiiiiiikeeeey **…**_.”  The sound is closer now, punctuated by the rustling of leaves as the forest awoke and the denizens stirred.

A single Jikininki has crept out of the forest and had begun feasting on the carrion of the battle. It's ghoulish face looking up at the turtle as he exited the tent full of more delicacy, crimson blood dripping from its fingers and mouth.

The yokai turned its head to the side, flashing wickedly sharp teeth at the shinobi before grasping the fallen Neko and dragging it back into the shadow of the trees at astounding speeds.

Deeper into the forest the sound of impish laughter rang, followed by the disembodied voice, **_“_** _Does the warrior dare? Dare to come find his friend_?”

At first Mikey can only stare at the zombie ghost thing. Back when they were plotting to find work like this, or when they were negotiating to join the caravan, NOBODY mentioned the possibility of zombie ghost things! Bandits had been suggested as a worst-case scenario. He could have handled bandits. The ninja were unexpected, but at the same time, rather par for the course… If they’d stuck around, Mike is confident that he could have handled them!

Zombie ghost things are not old hat. They are completely new, actually, and one of them happens to be munching away on kitty dude’s thigh. Mikey stares after the Z.G.T. and the smear of blood it left behind, then gives himself a shake. Survivors come first.

There are none to be found, however. The cat ninja were thorough. He makes a hasty search of the remainder of the camp, abandoning stealth and calling out in the silence. There are not enough bodies, he notes, but isn't sure whether or not he should be relieved by the fact. The missing people have either been abducted -- or they were false, just like Mitsuo, ninja hiding secretly in their midst.

_Enough, then._ Michelangelo charges out of the camp and into the forest, fists clenched around his chucks grimly. _I'm coming, Usagi-san!_

Eyes follow the turtle through the darkness as he sprints deeper into the forest, the underbrush crunching under his feet as he goes.

The yokai have not seen such a feast in their forest in quite some time - nor had they been bidden to feast to their heart's content by magicks such as these for an age.

They had been summoned from their slumber specifically for this one - this turtle who ran blindly into the very heart of this forest which stood between worlds and between time.

Through the gnarled woods came a desperate cry of, “Ryaaaah!” the ringing of steel against steel, and the sickening sound of tearing flesh. The spirits around the turtle cackled maniacally at the sounds as they herded the turtle deeper inward, occasionally showing their rotting visages peering through the trees, or swiping with wicked claws at the boy as he ran.

All for the purpose of leading Michelangelo to the oldest and most wicked among them. Leading him to his death.

Mikey’s brave, headlong charge into danger comes to a quick and stumbling halt as he hears his friend's token battle cry and the answering violence. These sounds were foreboding, enough that he is immediately hollering the ronin's name. It's bad enough that Usagi doesn't answer. But then, when the whole damn spooky forest starts _laughing_ … that's about the time his Scooby-esque cowardice starts kicking in.

“Ohhhh geez. Oh, shit,” he babbles under his breath. “I am not getting warm and fuzzy vibes from this forest. Also, this day needs to, like, pick a genre. Cuz it started out pretty traditional adventure RPG, right? But we’ve definitely taken a wrong turn somewhere and wound up in survival horror…”

Michelangelo feels a chill run up the back of his arms and is prompted to call out again for his friend. “Usagi-san? Call out if you can hear me!”

His stomach is doing all kinds of gymnastics now, but he still tries to put on a brave face for his shadowy adversaries. “Alright listen! That is MY bunny. Laugh it up, but if you harm so much as a single floof on my bunny’s head, I am going to _fuck your shit_ up. I don't care if you’re incorporeal and undead or whatever! I will find a way. I will decapitate and or Ghostbust your ass!”

The spirits laughed gleefully at the shinobi’s outcry. There was nothing that this lad could do to spare himself from the fate that awaited him in the heart of the forest. Nothing could stop her from cleaving him in two. They would feast on his flesh and soul this evening. Fair payment for this reckless youth trespassing into their realm.

There came a call from within the trees, seemingly the voice of a small girl came drifting on the wind, filled with a childlike lightheartedness that was in contradiction to her words. “If you want him, come and take him, Michelangelo. You had better hurry, or you may find that your friend has become rabbit stew.”

Teke Teke grinned widely adjusting her scythe in her hands. It has been far too long since she had felt the familiar weapon. The weapon that had been the undoing of countless foolish mortals who had crossed her path as she sought her vengeance on the living, her wrath fueled by the child's pain. Sakura’s family had not been watching. They had not seen her trip. If they had been paying attention as her body was broken, severed at the waist by the wheel of the ox-cart...

If she had been loved, if they had watched her - she would not have died alone and bleeding on the road.

Alone, that is, until Teke Teke was at her side. Whispering into the kitten’s ear that she need never be alone again.

The yokai smiled softly as she ran her thumb along the sickle’s blade. She would make as many of these mortals as she could suffer and die as the child had - their guts spilling from within them, and no one to hear them cry out as they departed this world. Now, it was this abomination’s turn. He would know what it was to be completely alone and helpless. He would feel their pain. And her Jikininki would feast on his flesh, tearing it from his body while his heart still beat within his chest.  
  
Her voice changed as she called out again from the shadows. Malice and contempt dripped with every syllable. “Come along, Michelangelo. Do not keep me waiting. Or you may not even have enough of your friend left to bury."

“Fine. You want fast? I can do fast!” Mike jeers, and then he’s off, tearing through the haunted underbrush in the general direction of the samurai’s anguished cries.

He’s being lead, it’s so obvious -- probably herded towards his doom. Michelangelo doesn't care. Diving headfirst into doom sounds more useful to Usagi than yelling threats into the dark.

The forest around him grows only more sinister and surreal. There is a harrowing moment where he is all set to leap over a tangled bit of underbrush, only to fling his body sideways and into a roll at the last second to avoid the gaping maw of some hungry apparition that materialized where he had initially planned to land.

He hits the ground hard, bruising his shoulder, but manages to recover from the unexpected tumble and regain his footing. The hard, calloused pads of his green feet strike the uneven ground, driven now by terror as much as obligation.

Teke Teke cackled mercilessly as the shinobi came barreling towards the copse of trees that served as her temporary abode. But she would not be here long. Once she had reaped the soul of this whelp she would move on to distribute more suffering on the living to quell the hate within her.

The stench of the turtle's fear carried on the air like sweet perfume filling her with blood lust and anticipation. The delectable terror only made stronger as he emerged from the thicket and into her clearing.

The Jikininki that served as her minion came crawling on all fours to her side, blood and gore dripping from its jaw, a scrap of familiar blue fabric stuck between his teeth. She brought one delicate hand down to stroke the yokai’s chin and then lifted her now crimson covered finger to her lips.

“I told you to not keep me waiting, Michelangelo.” she jeered with a sinister grin.

“No way,” Mike breathes, pulling up short to stare at the blood-stained fabric hanging from the Gollum creature's horrible mouth.

It does look a bit like his favorite villain from the Lord of the Rings movies, except there is nothing sympathetic or slightly adorable about this ghost’s minion. There are other differences. This beast is longer of limb, its arms especially, to a grotesque extent. And it's got red eyes that burn with hatred and a hypnotic empty glow that he knows better than to meet directly. Leo said that it wasn't safe to look spirit creatures of any kind in the eye. It was like an open gateway for them, a passage through which way too many nasties were able to work evil on the living. Thinking of this, Mike drops his eyes and stares hard at the ground in front of his toes.

He keeps wondering when the horror and grief will seize him, but even now all his brain can think is _NO WAY!_

There is no way his friend lost so quickly to this Gollum Daddy Long Arms motherfucker. Usagi is so skilled and so brave! The life of a wandering ronin is Hella dangerous. He has already heard tales of other evil ghosts Usagi encountered before and they were hard pressed to even damage him, let alone beat him right away!

_Usagi isn't dead,_ Mike's blue eyes, still downcast, widen as he realizes, _and I can prove it!_

The young shinobi gulps hard as he realizes the scary thing he’ll have to do. “Spirits care nothing for the body,” he recites softly to himself as he drops to his knees and assumes his preferred meditation stance “They can only interact with the spirit your body houses. The body can't be perceived once the spirit is removed from it. And usually the best way to damage or banish an evil spirit is from within the spirit world.”

Detaching from his body and entering the spirit world is not hard. Mike could not say for sure why it is not hard, any more than he can explain why he's always able to see those retro magic eye pictures. Raphael finds both completely impossible. But to Mike, it's no big deal. The hard part is actually DOING stuff from the spirit world. And remembering how to get back to his body if he dares to venture too far away from it, that can be tricky too.

Mikey gets up off his knees (but not really) and looks down at the life force still thrumming in his mortal form poised on the ground in front of him. _With a name like Yokai, you had better not be wrong about all that stuff you said about battling spirits,_ he can't help fretting. Mike decides that if zombie Gollums tore his defenseless body to shreds, he would just have to have to spend the rest of his existence haunting the fuck out of Leo.

The turtle’s bright spirit takes several big, experimental steps away from his body. He remains careful not to look at the ghosts except from his peripheral vision but pauses several feet away and tries to gauge their reaction. Are they paying attention to him or his body?

Teke Teke chuckled wildly as the turtle warrior knelt before her, his spiritual energy separating from its fleshy prison and entering fully into her dominion. If the yokai had been frightening as it appeared in the mortal realm, the visage that now stood before the shinobi was nothing short of terrifying. Only vaguely now did it resemble the little girl that had served as its mask within material plane.

Crimson eyes shone like beacons in the darkness, attempting to draw the whelp in like a moth to flame. Tendrils of darkness radiated from her form, writhing in the air like serpents of shadow looking to sink their fangs in and spread their venomous evil.

The child, however, had not disappeared entirely. Only now within the spiritual plane it was clear that she and Teke Teke were not one and the same. The kitten lay trapped in the bosom of the demon, held fast by webs of darkness that secured her to the heart of the yokai. Her terrified feline face was barely visible, but her eyes sought out the terrapin - silently pleading for true and merciful death.

The jikininki shifted its head excitedly, it's devilish tongue flicking in the air like a viper as it sniffed out its prey. The ghoulish yokai chittering excitedly as its eyes hone in on the prone body of the shinobi warrior, abandoned now of its life force. Truly, he would feast well tonight.

Teke Teke cackled, wickedly sharp teeth like those of the creatures of the deep protruding from her maw as she brandished her scythe before her. She squared up to the turtle, her voice now a thunderous boom as she chastised the turtle, “Foolish mortal. This night will be your last.”

In a flash both of the spirits charged. Teke Teke rushed Michelangelo’s spiritual form while the ghoulish fiend rushed towards the corporeal vessel.

“Aww, damnit!” That thing? So sees his body. “Thanks a lot, Leo!” Mike hollers as he reasserts his grip on his nunchaku and launches himself at the ZGT. “Fat lotta good your teachings are…. HYAH!” He sends a spinning chuck down on the beastie’s head and leaps back, trying to judge if that had any satisfactory reaction.

One good thing came of this gamble, however. Usagi's swords? Not in the vicinity. Those things normally glow in the spirit realm with a light that is dazzling, like they have souls of their own… like they ARE made of soul. And if they were anywhere near this ghostie, he would sense it. It means this ghost is a liar, and he has far less reason to be afraid.

The jikininki had nearly reached the prone form of the terrapin warrior, his maw stretched wide as he moved to sink his teeth into reptilian flesh. Only, at the last moment the ghoul faltered, the blow to his head causing him to collapse momentarily. The yokai was quickly back on all fours, hissing menacingly at the vibrant specter of his would-be meal.

The ghoul charged towards Michelangelo’s spiritual form, his first few steps a little sluggish as he reoriented himself to the battlefield. Wickedly sharp claws lashed out, catching onto the non-corporeal kimono the shinobi wore and tearing a gash into the fabric. A rip which also suddenly appears on the silk kimono in the physical realm.

The turtle does not have much time to react to this. At nearly the same moment, Teke Teke had reached his other flank and was bringing her scythe down in a sweeping arc with a maniacal laugh.

Michelangelo dodges the scythe, because, duh. But most of his attention is on the beastie that wants to eat his actual body. He can hurt that thing. And he's not sure he wants to hurt Teke Teke. There's a little girl in there.

He circles away from the scythe wielding spook and once he's got the Zombie Ghost Thing between himself and the big bad, that's when he goes to town on it. With a war cry, he rains down a flurry of unpredictable blows, wherever he thinks he can land them.

The onslaught of hits are enough to damage the ghoulish yokai, but not to put an end to his blood lust. The jikininki lashed out at every opening that presented itself, furiously swiping and biting at the ninja. Mikey was quick enough to avoid the majority of the attacks, the claws and teeth managing to only catch the air where the turtle had been just prior. One lucky claw attack finds a mark, biting into the forearm of the youthful warrior just a moment before a nunchaku connects with the yokai’s jaw.

“Yaachh!” It's not that Mike expected to come out of this unscathed, but damn -- it still surprises him to see glowing white welling up where blood should have appeared on his forearm. He can't help remembering what Leonardo warned him about spirit battles… that if he is injured too gravely here, there will not be enough of him left to return to his body. It is memory and life force welling on his arm rather than his internal fluids -- ultimately a much more deadly thing to lose. He draws back and clutches the injury in an effort to keep it with him.

He can't back off now, however. Mike has the thing hurting -- and his weapons are effective on it, which is more than he can say for sure on the physical plane. His fellow ninja had not managed to slay a single one of the critters, as far as he could tell. He gathers his resolve and flies at it again, determined to dash its spirit brains into the mud.

The yokai met the charge of the shinobi with a screeching cry as it tried with all it had to tear into the boy. A deafening howl left the creature as the spinning chucks connected with an outstretched hand, shattering the bones into pieces upon impact.

As the jikininki recoiled with pain Teke Teke took the opportunity to surge forward and swung her scythe dangerously close to the turtle. The air near the shinobi’s face is disrupted as the scythe passes right by his snout, missing him by a fraction of an inch.

“Whooo… no nose jobs for me! Not today, thanks!” Mike ducks back, heart pounding. Or is it? It occurs to him that his actual heart is still with his body which is slumped nearby. But it certainly feels like all the feelings he would normally associate with a close call are now thrumming through him.

“Aren't you dead yet, ugly?” he jeers the Z.G.T. -- mostly to bolster his own courage. “Well, of course you are! Being a zombie, or closely related… the point is, wanna see if you can get even deader? Come at my body again, and we'll find out!”

Almost instantly the ghoulish fiend is back, reared onto his legs in order to swipe at Michelangelo with his uninjured claw. The yokai sees an opening, a break in the shinobi’s defenses and lunges forward, intent on sinking his fangs into the spirit warrior's throat. An action which was prevented at the very last moment, he was close enough that he could feel the life force of the turtle pulsing between his open jaws. Instead of the satisfaction of slaughtering the youth the action was met with a sickening crack of bone as the nunchaku came down directly between his eyes.

The jikininki stumbled backwards with a howl and collapsed into a twitching mass of flesh.

Teke Teke cried out in anguish as her most loyal pet crumbled at the turtle's feet. Her eyes flared with hellish fire and her words were amplified to a painful point as she bore down on the turtle, “YOU WILL PAY FOR THAT, MORTAL. YOU WILL SUFFER FOR YOUR TRESPASSES.”

“Yeeeaaah... If I can do that?” Michelangelo makes a casual tilt of his head to indicate the fallen mass of foulness formerly known as Zombie Ghost Thing, “Then there's no WAY you took down my honey bun.”

Mike flicks the chucks back into action, spinning circles of blurred motion. He’s not sure why they got to come with him into the spiritual realm -- or his clothes for that matter. There was some lesson on how to accomplish it, but he’d barely been paying attention. The important thing is that he needs the weapons and they are with him. Good thing, too. This beastie is pissed.

“Hey, I got a deal for you,” he taunts the monster, keeping well outside of its reach. “You release your inner kitty cat, and I will suffer the humiliation of going 'awwww’ and being reduced to mushy incoherent syllables when I see how cute you are deep down inside! Then I’ll getcha some string to bat at, or maybe a toy with some jingle bells on it… oh! And I’ll even make ya a little treehouse thingie to scratch your claws on! It’ll be great! We’ll be best buds. Whaddya say?”

That shinobi’s sarcastic request is met with an unearthly and demonic hiss from the yokai, her anger seeping from her in waves that caused the very forest around them to darken. The impertinence of this warrior had grown tiresome quite quickly and she intended on reducing him once again to the scared whelp that had entered her clearing.

She straightened to her full height and raised the scythe high above her head as she charged the turtle, swinging the weapon with reckless abandon as she closed the space between them, cackling with mirthless laughter.

Michelangelo always did have a knack for enraging his opponents past the point of a reasonable reaction. And swinging that big blade around, well, it sure _looks_ flashy and deadly. But it also gives him an excellent opportunity to try and snatch it away from her. He flicks both chucks to change the direction of the spin and shoves them towards her, touching the metal tips to the wooden handle and allowing the chains to wrap around it while she is still mid-swing.

The yokai’s own wild momentum is turned against her. “Hup!” Mike cries as he yanks the weapon towards him, waiting for that moment when the hold of the wrapped chains will be at their strongest. In another moment they will click against the handle and start flying in the opposite direction, coming unwound.

The yokai fell forward when the sickle was suddenly ripped from her grasp by her opponent. She made a swift recovery, rolling and getting back to her feet in a matter of moments. She turned to the turtle and shrieked with outrage at the sight of her own scythe in this mortal’s hands. Never in her long life had an enemy had either the skills or the audacity to take her weapon from her.

Teke Teke crouched, tendrils of darkness seeming to solidify around her as she charged forward with almost spider like movement toward the turtle, her jaw opening widely to bite at the warrior.

While he still has some leverage with the chains, Mike gives the scythe a toss that sends it into the air above him. Just long enough to allow him to holster both chucks and snatch it out of the air. He sidesteps the charge and makes a few more leaps in retreat. Once he's put enough distance between them, he hefts his new prize experimentally and sends it into a controlled defensive figure 8. Maybe not as effortlessly as Don could have. This thing is way big compared to what he’s used to, and he needs to spend some time just getting a feel for it.

“Not bad, not bad… nicely balanced,” he compliments her, or mocks her. Probably a bit of both. “Not as heavy as I expected it to be… but I guess that could be a ghost thing, yeah?” The chatter is just stalling, perhaps a tactic to stay cool in the face of that creepy darkness that surrounds her. But also, the way she's moving right now is problematic. He can still see the little kitten girl trapped inside this monstrosity, and he’s not going to just let into her with a giant grim reaper blade. If only he could goad this beastie into sticking its neck out again… literally, this time.

“Hey, pussy! Do you mind if I call you pussy? What do you get out of tormenting little girls, anyway? You can't handle dominating warriors or Battle Nexus Champions, you got to pick on little half-grown runts?” He has to leap again to stay out of range, using the butt of the scythe to try some pole vaulting action for additional distance. Then it's right back to the smack talk. “Is it just a convenience thing, like, you're super lazy? Or just not feelin’ up to a challenge?”

The yokai does not justify the turtle's questions with any tangible answer other than the evil hisses leaving her spectral lips. Her momentum had carried her further away from the shinobi than she had intended, particularly with him leaping about nimbly, but she was able to turn on a dime and resume her charge.

She barreled in the direction of the mortal warrior, lashing out at him with grotesque claws. One of those hands lands, digging into the shoulder of the turtle ruthlessly as she widened her jaw obscenely and lunged forward to clamp down with her angler like teeth.

“Holy guacamole, that's… hahh!” This thing is not playing around in the pain department. This is a bit like white hot knives being driven into him. Being gouged by Teke Teke makes the Z.G.T.’s attack feel like a fresh slap on the rump by comparison.

Mike pitches forward in an effort to throw her off him and is astonished when the maneuver actually works. When the thing is prone at his feet, he doesn't give it thought -- though the motion required to bring down the sickle’s blade at full force wrenches a scream out of him. Hopefully it's a manly sounding scream -- nope, no such luck.

The _important_ thing is, the blade comes down -- right where he wants it to descend. Right on the beastie’s neck.

The yokai’s eyed widened as she was thrown from the turtle, it had been a minor setback and she was prepared to leap at him once again. The demon poised herself to strike just as that fateful shout left Michelangelo and she saw her doom speeding towards her in the form of her own scythe.

There was an irony to it, being defeated with her own weapon. The blade that she had used to decimate so many victims throughout the turn of the last century.

Her eyes widened in shock at the blade cut through her like a hot knife through butter. The look of surprise and anger lingered on her face, even as her head rolled to a stop at the shinobi feet  

The aura of pure evil that had engulfed the yokai body began to dissipate within moments of her defeat, the darkness rising into the air like smoke. Soon, all that remained of the spirit was the form of the kitten who lay motionless, face down in the dirt.

Mike moves instinctively, seeing only a helpless victim before him now. His hands reach for the tiny form to pull it up into his arms.

“Hey there, kitty,” he soothes it in soft and protective tones. “I’ve got you. You don't gotta worry… I’m here. Scared the big bad beastie away... Let Uncle Mikey take care of you, okay? When it comes to taking care of little kitties, I got experience!”

The kitten meowed pathetically as she was lifted into the strong arms of the shinobi kneeling in the dirt beside the spot she had fallen. Her almond eyes which were the color of liquid gold looked up at the turtle in disbelief as she extended a paw to tap at his snout as if to make sure that he was truly there.

“I didn't want to-” her statement was cut short as her voice caught in her throat and tears began to fall freely down her face. After a moment she finished through her strangled sobs, “t-to hurt those people. I was s-scared! She said I d-didn't have to be alone anymore.”

“No more hurting people,” Mike agrees, cradling the little cat and rocking her gently. “No more being alone, no more being scared. I promise. Uncle Mikey’s gonna stay with you for as long as you need, okay? I'm gonna make sure that you're safe.”

In some part of his mind he already understands that she is dead. She died, cold and alone, a long time ago. He can feel all of this thrumming out of her with that empathic sense he sometimes gets when he gazes into the eyes of another being, and even he could guess by her form, so insubstantial next to his own blazing, living chi. But he says the words she has needed to hear for much too long. “Let me care for you… let me keep you safe.”

The kitten let her arm drop lamely onto her abdomen, now reassured that the turtle was not a hallucination of her broken and fragile mind. He was here. And she was no longer caught in the thrall of the deceptive yokai who had claimed to be her friend.

She rested her head against the turtle's plastron, closing her eyes in relief. Even now, her form was beginning to become less substantial, soft and comforting light emanating from her as she wrapped the tiny digits of her paw around one of Michelangelo’s fingers. “You will stay, Uncle Mikey? I don't have to be alone this time?”

“Never again, kitling,” Michelangelo promises, bowing his head over the little ghost. “It sucks to be alone, huh? I get it. To me, that is more scary than anything…” The yokai knew that, he realizes. That's the first thing she plucked out of his head, the first fear she chose to use against him when she claimed to have slain Usagi.

“I won't let that happen to you,” he assures her, feeling her tiny claws bite harmlessly into his finger as she grips him. He gives her a shiny-eyed smile, his chest tight with sudden emotion. “You got somewhere you belong, with souls who love you. They been looking for you this whole time, did you know that? So, I'm gonna hold on tight and make sure you get there safe and sound… I’ll protect you.”

The little spirit buried her face into the turtle's chest, rubbing her snout softly against him gratefully as she relaxed in his arms. She seemed to doze off, warm and secure as the dim light that surrounded her seemed to brighten momentarily. In the span of a few heartbeat she seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but empty air in the shinobi’s arms.

Michelangelo waits, even after his arms are empty -- after they have been empty for some time. Let it not be said that he did not keep his promise. He will linger here, cradling the empty air, until he is certain all trace of her is gone.  

With a pang of loss, he finds himself wishing he had asked her for her name. “I won't forget you,” he promises softly.

At last there is nothing to do but get to his feet and cast out for his own companion -- the samurai who is his own proof against solitude. He would not go back to facing his trials alone, not if he can help it. How miserable those months had been…

There! It's not Usagi he can sense, but his swords, about a mile to the north. _Maybe it's the same thing. How strange it would be, to keep my soul in my nunchucks…_

He starts towards them without thinking, and is several strides on his way before realizing, “Oh. Right. My body would probably come in handy… hard to say hello without it, heh.” Plus, if he strays too far from it… well. Let's just say his track record for long distance body recovery is not great.  Leo was always quick to help out in the past, but never without rubbing it in his face.

He settles back in and is surprised to feel that his aching shoulder is whole again. Which is great, but at the same time, a little eerie. What did he lose when that wicked ghost took drove its claws into his shoulder? His recollection of a birthday? Was it a moment of victory or sorrow?  Conflict or peace? Impossible to say, now that it's gone.

Mike checks the stars overhead, squares his shoulders to the north, and starts walking.

**_-0-0-0-_ **

The ronin had stared unblinkingly through the portal like disc that had been manifested by a slightly grizzled Tribunal mystic. The disc had initially made him slightly ill to look through. It let off an acid green aura and had been following Michelangelo’s frantic dash through the forest. Usagi found his heart racing beneath his chest as his friend narrowly avoided several reaching claws that sought to trip him up and make a meal of him.

The helplessness he felt at the sight of his companion facing this alone and being unable to aid him in any way was excruciating.

It seemed that the entire clan was also caught up in watching the show, many of them standing behind him, passing around jugs of sake and placing bets on the genin’s performance.

Seemingly uninterested in the merry making of his clan Kagemaru stood directly beside the samurai and watched with nearly the same level of intensity that Usagi was displaying. A wide grin split across his face as Michelangelo crashed into the clearing of Teke Teke. He was truly excited to see how the Hamato whelp would fare against the yokai, a part of him hoping to see him fail miserably. It was an idea that he found even more sweet when he imagined the boy’s pompous brother watching as he was torn to shreds.

Usagi strained his ears to catch all of the conversation that Mikey was engaging in over the general ruckus of the shinobi behind him. His breath seemed to catch in his throat as Mikey knelt, prone before the demons after muttering about the spirit world. The spirits began to circle the turtle and charged forward.

What happened next baffled the ronin for a few moments. The demons seemed to be fighting and losing to thin air. This ludicrous notion was dismissed quickly as the shinobi next to him let out an irritated sigh and snapped at the shinobi who was controlling the portal, “Old man, can't you make this thing show us what is actually happening?”

The portal before them flickered softly but did not disappear as the hooded ninja glanced at the Jonin in annoyance. “There is nothing I can do if you do not possess the sight, Kagemaru. The most I can do is let you look. It is entirely your responsibility as to what you see. We have shinobi watching astrally, as well as members of the Tribunal council who are monitoring him closely. I assure you that anyone that _needs to know_ what is happening is well aware of it.”

The cat had let out an incredulous scoff at the comment before his gaze flashed down at the ronin who had begun chuckling softly as the cat was put in his place. The hare’s eyes never left the image before them, even when he could feel Kagemaru’s gaze shooting daggers into him. He was far too worried about his young charge to risk looking away for even a second, lest he miss the conclusion of what appeared to be an epic spiritual battle.

The beings on the battlefield stopped moving, all had gone quiet. With each second that his friend did not react, his body still lifeless on its knees, Usagi felt dread build in his gut. He found himself quietly whispering at the green image, “Come on, Michelangelo… Come back, Mikey….”

He saw the turtle's head raise and relief flooded through him. Usagi let out a victorious whoop as he punched his fist into the air celebrating on behalf of his friend. He eagerly looked up, glancing between both Kagemaru and the cowled figure who had allowed them to watch the trial and asked hopefully, “That means that he has passed, yes?”

“The trial is over. It is not for me to say whether he passed or failed.” The mystic replied with a non-committal shrug as the portal flickered out of existence. He turned and pointed toward the tree line, “He will be coming from that direction.”

At the gesture Usagi quickly ran towards the edge of the shinobi camp in the indicated direction. He strained his eyes against the darkness, seeking out any sign of his young companion.

Mike arrives on the scene, from exactly the tree line indicated, without fanfare. He doesn't seem to be in a terrible hurry.  Usagi's swords haven't moved much, but neither have they been utterly still, so he’s fairly sure his friend is whole. It seems wiser to conserve his strength and approach with stealth.

Stealth, as it turns out, is wholly unnecessary. There's a whole big crowd of people here, and that could have been a very bad thing -- except that Usagi is among them. Unbound and free as the breeze. “Gosh, Usagi-san,” he calls playfully as he emerges from the shadows. “You guys are just hanging out, huh? You and your kitty pals, kickin’ it with some brewskies… yeah. That kinda puts a crimp in my whole plan to bust you outta here in a big heroic rescue!”

There is irony in his tone, but Mike finds he can't work himself up enough to be properly offended. Mostly he’s just grateful that Usagi appears to be whole and that more combat won’t be immediately necessary. That battle with the spooks left him feeling pretty drained.

As soon as he hears that familiar voice calling out to him a wide grin split across the samurai’s features. He laughed at the turtle's response and rushed forward, wrapping his uninjured arm around the shinobi in a relieved hug.

It lasted only a moment before the veteran warrior pulled back, leaving his paw gripping the boy's shoulder. Usagi gave Mikey a gentle squeeze before replying hastily, “The entire thing was one of your trials, Michelangelo-san. I was unaware of it until they had separated us at the camp.”

The smile he wore was genuine as he went on, “You did so well… at least, I believe you did. Truth be told, there was much that I could not see. Are you hurt, my friend?”

“Never better!” Mike boasts, feeling reenergized by the news. “Aww, man! If that was the trial, I’m pretty sure I killed it!” He hesitates, and his grin goes a little bit sheepish as he adds, “Which is good! That means you did good at something. But I did kinda kill it, literally. Took out the ghostie with her own scythe. Chopped her head right off, yo! And then she turned into a little ghost kitten and I got to snuggle her til her spirit passed on, and…”

He gives a little shriek and hops in place. Not his most manly moment, not by far, but it's like his happiness can't be contained. “Ahhhh! I passed a trial, Usagi-san!  I am the motherfucking shiiiit!” He pretty much sings this last word and also fist pumps, self-congratulatory to the extreme.

Then Mikey pauses to wonder, “Which one WAS that, anyway?” Clearly a deep and meaningful lesson has been learned here.

The ronin wore a wide smile as his young companion celebrated the news of his trial. Truthfully, Usagi was not yet certain that Michelangelo had in fact passed this trial yet. He did not want to make the assumption without confirmation from the Tribunal Shinobi who were responsible for making that call, but he also could not find it in himself to cut the hopping dance of victory short.

Usagi let out a laugh as the boy’s celebration came to an end and supplied helpfully, “It was your trial of Courage. Apparently the Neko clan were in charge of orchestrating the entire ordeal. They had been steering our course since the moment we were hired by the caravan.”  
  
He reached out and grabbed Michelangelo’s hand, pulling him towards the camp. “Come, my friend. I believe that the shinobi of the Tribunal will want to exchange words with you.”

Mike allows himself to be dragged along. “Hell yeah!” he enthuses, practically bouncing after the ronin. “I wanna hear whatever those dudes gotta say. Especially if what they gotta say is, daaaaaamn Mikey! You fucking ROCKED that courage trial! Especially when you took off her head like, wha-BLAM!”

There’s a chance that humility trial is going to be a tough one for him.

Usagi could not suppress the heartfelt and truly relieved laugh that left his lips as he negotiated his way back through the trees. This night had gone from tedious to completely insane in a matter of minutes and for a moment, the ronin had been unsure that he and his young friend would see sunrise.

The truth of the matter though was that his companion was, hopefully, one step closer to completing his trials and restoring his honor. It was a truly exciting prospect. The ronin let go of Mike’s hand as they entered the clearing and gestured with an open palm towards the huddle of hooded shinobi waiting for the young genin.

As the turtle came into view, one of these mystics held his arms wide and addressed Mikey with a formal bow, “Hamato Michelangelo. Come, we have much to discuss.”

The wizened ninja stepped forward, placing a withered hand on the boy’s shoulder and began steering him towards the gathering. “I must say that we were quite impressed with what we saw. Your mastery of the manipulation of spiritual energies is astounding for one your age.”

The others nodded in agreeance as the mystic who seemed to be the ringleader of this crew continued on, “On this night you have demonstrated, before the eyes of The Tribunal Council, true and unfaltering courage. You risked your life and limb to rescue your companion and to free the soul of an innocent. You faced your enemies with dignity, honor and with skills that far exceeded expectation.”

The mystic pulled a small container of vibrant red oil from within his sleeve. He applied a small amount to his finger before reaching out for the shinobi and proceeding to draw the symbol of courage (勇) on the turtle's brow. “Tonight, you have done your clan proud, Michelangelo-sama.”

“You honor me,” Mike bows, but doesn't make it super low and respectful like he might have if he didn't have to worry about fucking up his Simba paint job. Hopefully Important Ninja Dude will understand.

His smile goes just a bit sheepish, showing too many teeth, as it occurs to him that he really should know the actual name of Important Ninja Dude by this point. They've interacted a bunch of times already. Of all those times, this is the best yet!

The wizened shinobi glanced down at the jovial youth beaming up at him. There was such fire and passion that burned deep in those eyes. Such promise and talent. A touch of sadness reached his smile knowing that it was his responsibility to rip the very soul from the young ninja before him, should he fail. That he personally would be the one to put an end to the spark within Michelangelo Hamato.

That was why he was here, after all. Shinobi were not given fanfare and elaborate ceremonies at the end of their trials. They were simply left with their next clue and expected to piece it together. Such was not the case with these trials. The genin smiling up at him would not be awarded any second chances. There was no margin for error.

If the boy did not rise to the challenge, his would be a fate worse than death. He would become shell of his former self, molded to serve the council. It was not something that he would wish upon even his worst enemy. And it would be he who put an end to the boy.

The shinobi let his features slide back into the state of non-emotion in which he typically functioned as he pulled a scroll from within his sleeve and held it out for the terrapin warrior. “There is still much to do, Hamato. And neither time nor fate are on your side.”

He stepped backward, away from the Genin and gave him a smile filled with pity as he spoke, “Rest tonight, regain your strength. You will no longer be hounded by the yokai of The Tangled Skein. But when day breaks you must away. It is more than your honor that depends on your success.”

It was all the warning he could give. Even that may have been too much. However, the deed was done. He would deal with the repercussions of the council upon his return. Within a moment the glade was filled with purple haze, the smoke from no less than thirty bombs from the surrounding ninja. When it cleared, all that remained was the turtle and his yojimbo.

 


End file.
